


For Only Blood Can Wipe Out Blood (and only tears can heal)

by EclipseWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - American Horror Story: Murder House, Blood, Depression, F/M, Ghost Allison, Ghost Derek, Ghost Kate, Ghost Laura, Ghost Peter - Freeform, Ghost Stiles, Ghosts, Half the characters are dead, Hallucinations, Horror, Mental Health Issues, Mental Health problems, Murder, Psychopath Stiles, Self-Harm, Stiles is Tate Lydia is Violet, This is ridiculous, suicides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re saying ghosts are real?” Lydia whispers.<br/>“Of course,” Allison smiles, “You’re looking right at one.”</p><p>It’s meant to be a fresh start.<br/>It’s not meant to turn into a real living horror story.</p><p>(Where Stiles is one of the ghosts haunting their new house and Lydia is the girl that’s being driven mad AKA the Stydia Murder House AU that quite frankly, I can’t believe nobody has written yet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. perpetual motion

**Author's Note:**

> You do not have to have seen American Horror Story: Murder House. Also please note I am not a psychologist, nor have I studied psychology. No information in here is accurate in any way. It also might be trigger-y to anyone who has issues with mental health, depression, suicide, ghosts and a whole bunch of other things.
> 
> Title from Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’

It's a new start.

A new state, a new town, a new school. California is far away from New York and here at least they know nothing about her. There are no stories surrounding her. There are no rumours that follow her down the corridor.

It's the new plan.

She dumps her bags in the hallway, looking around at their new house. It's old. It's also beautiful.

It's fascinating. It's history is almost as dark as Lydia's own. Darker even.

"Are you going to stand in the hallway all morning or are you going to help me move some boxes?" Natalie Martin stops in the doorway right behind her daughter.

Lydia spins around dramatically, gracing her mother with a small smile, "Do I look like I'm going to get my nails dirty, lugging around heavy boxes all day? I thought that was what the movers were for."

"Then move aside and let them do their jobs," her mother's tone is gentle. Teasing. Lydia listens, collecting her bags and moving them to the base of the stairs. Then she heads back outside to pick up Prada.

Her Papillion wags his tail eagerly as she scoops him out of his cage, "Oh, you're a good boy," she croons, stroking him for a moment and looking up at her new home, "Hopefully this time there will be less screaming and less waking hallucinations," she reassures herself, and makes her way up the path.

"Hey..." she doesn't hear the call until she's almost at the door, "Hey, wait up--"

She comes to a halt when she realises the panting boy is talking to her. He doubles over, wheezing and scrambling in his baggy red hoody pocket for what ends up being an inhaler. "Can I help you?" she asks, when she's given the boy time to start breathing properly again.

"You live here?" the boy's eyes are wide as he looks up at her and then to the house behind her. His eyes are wide and soulful, his skin a deep olive colour and hair fluffy and messy, "I mean... did you buy the house? You're moving in?"

"Yes," Lydia replies archly, "Yes, my mom and I are moving in, although I don't see how that's any of your business."

"My business-- oh, no, I live next door. I'm Scott McCall," he sticks out a hand.

It's grubby and his nails are bitten to the quick. Lydia doesn't take it, Prada still in her arms so she just swishes her hair and replies, "Lydia Martin."

"Nice to meet you," Scott's beaming smile doesn't fade as he drops his unshaken hand. It only falters when he looks back up at the house, "Why this house?" he asks, almost warily, "It's not the most..."

"Appealing?" Lydia shrugs, "I liked it."

"Oh," Scott says, shifting awkwardly as the conversation dries up.

"I've got to go," Lydia makes up an excuse, and half-turns to the house behind her, "Unpacking and stuff. I'll probably see you around in school. I'm starting my junior year."

"Me too!" Scott says, and then stumbles forwards as she moves away, reaching out. He looks about to trip over his own feet and Lydia just hopes he isn't going to ask her out.

He doesn't.

He grabs her arm, pulling her away from the porch and glancing around, almost fearfully, he leans in close. "You should move," the boy whispers, "You really, really shouldn't have picked this house."

She arches one eyebrow and pulls her arm free, "Is that a threat? Because I don't scare easily."

The boy shakes his head, puppy eyes wide, "What? No... no... it's... just be careful?"

"It's a house," Lydia smiles, "What's the worst that could happen?"

Scott's smile is sad as he steps backwards, "Welcome to Murder House."

 

"Are you okay, sweetie?" her mom asks her later when the movers have gone, all their furniture is in place and Lydia's standing at the back door waiting for Prada to finish his business.

"I'm fine." It's her go-to response. It's not like her mom understands. It's not like her mom even noticed what with the divorce going on. It wasn't until she vanished for two days only to be found naked in the woods with no memory of what happened.

It only got worse from there. The doctors had made hundreds of diagnoses'. Schizophrenic came up a lot. Prone to blackouts. Regular bouts of dissociations. Auditory hallucinations.

She was losing her mind and nobody realised.

By then her dad was gone. He barely wanted to deal with her and so it was left to her mother to take care of her, the same way she had been left to take care of Lydia's grandmother.

"Lorraine went out crazy," she remembers her dad sneering, "and now my daughter is going to same way. It's your fault!"

It had been one of the last arguments before her dad had moved out of their house.

Her mom wraps one arm around her shoulder comfortingly, "We'll be fine," she whispers, kissing Lydia's hair. "I've got a new job... we'll get settled down in no time." Lydia feels like she can almost believe that. "Now: I'm going upstairs to have a long hot bath. Lock up when you bring Prada in, will you?"

"Of course," Lydia watches her mother go, and rubs at where the cold night air is leaving goose bumps up her arms.

She'll be fine, she thinks. Change is good, isn't that what people say?

Everything is going to be fine.

She forgets how much of a lie the word 'fine' is.

"Prada!" she calls, "Prada, where have you got to?"

She takes a step outside, peering through the darkness for her black and white Papillion.

"Prada?"

"Here."

She's not expecting the rough, male voice. She freezes as someone steps out of the gloom.

For a moment she's expecting Scott. Not the tall, dark haired young man who steps out of the gloom cradling Prada to his chest. "He ran out of the back gate which was wide open. Probably from the movers... you just moved in, right?"

"That's right. And what are you doing lurking in people's gardens?"

"I wasn't lurking," he seems almost offended, "I was waiting to do my good deed of the day," and with that he bends over, letting Prada jump down. Her gods runs past her ankles and into the kitchen.

"Well your good deed done, I'll be seeing you," she takes a step backwards.

"So we can hang out again?" he jumps on that, with a grin. His pale blue eyes sparkle.

She hums, as if considering it; "No."

"That's a shame. It's not every day I get to help out a pretty girl."

"It's not every day I punch creepy strangers in the face but I can always make exceptions."

He seems to get the message, "Fair enough." He backs away, assumedly to their back gate, "By the way, pretty girl, my name is Peter Hale. There you go: I'm not a stranger. Maybe next time I'll see you, you might gift me with your name?"

"I'm not going to see you again!" she shouts after him, but he's already gone.

Lydia is left frowning after him.

 

Lydia goes to school, politely declining the offer from Scott to give her a lift. If this is a new start she doesn't want to arrive at school windswept and clinging onto the back of her neighbour's dirt bike.

She had a car. She isn't allowed to drive it though. Not after the time she went for a car drive and ended up somewhere she didn't even remember driving with a dead body nearby.

She was innocent. They couldn't connect her to the murder, and she knows she didn't do it. She also knows that she's not well enough to claim she hasn't been seeking out the most bloody deaths possible. She knows she isn't well enough to be trusted with car keys.

It doesn't stop it being annoying. It's feels like a noose around her neck; restricting her freedom.

She catches a lift with her mother and arrives at school before everyone else. Her first day is what she expected. It could have been better. It could have been worse but she had made her point.

And best of all; she doesn’t hear the words 'lunatic' once.

 

Natalie crosses her legs, and then five minutes later she crosses them back the other way, mentally chiding herself. His eyes are sharp and they track her nervous shifting, so she pushes her emotions down and out of the room like she is supposed to. He doesn't say anything, just keeps worrying at the nails of his hand with his teeth. They're already chewed down as far as possible, but he keeps biting at them.

"Dad's not home much," he tells her, hands clasped together. He's always moving. In perpetual motion he's constantly shifting his weight, twitching a finger, an arm; his eyes dart around the room looking at almost everything but her.

The moment her eyes drop to her notes his eyes flicker up to her for a split second then back down.

She doesn't say anything. She just lets him talk.

"He started picking extra shifts ever since Mom died. I don't think he likes to be at home and he's... _dedicated_ to his job. I get that, but I wish he'd be home for me. Maybe I remind him of her... isn't that what they say? And back when I was a kid he used to come home and go straight for the bottle. He didn't even talk to me."

The boy laughs. It's bitter. Full of frustration that is obviously years in the making. Natalie just listens. She's here to offer counsel and guidance. She'll do what she can but the boy has to do the rest himself.

"He's a functioning alcoholic. Is that the term they use? He stopped getting really, totally hammered after someone at work complained. He started trying a bit more after someone noticed I'd been trying to cook and clean for the past two months."

Another laugh. Frustrated but with a razor sharp edge.

"We fell into a routine after that. Moved on. But he's still barely home. Our conversations consist of him asking me how school is, and checking I'm keeping my grades up. Which I do: I have straight A's."

"It says here," Natalie inserts herself into the conversation, "With behavioural issues."

"I have ADD. It makes it hard to focus. I handed in an end of term paper and on the last question I gave the Coach an essay for the history of circumcision. It was an economics paper."

"And what about friends?"

He doesn't laugh this time. He just makes a tiny huff of amusement, eyes flickering up to her.

" _Stiles_ ," she says, a question in her voice.

"I don't really have friends," he answers, slowly. "I mean... I have Scott. He's my best friend. I think our parents are really pleased with that... Scott has asthma and it... it slows me down. I still drag him into enough trouble, but he's such a good guy that it's all mostly harmless. And it's always been just the two of us... y'know? We didn't need anyone else. We had Harley, I guess, but she moved. And Scott had his friends but I... I only really needed Scott."

"You didn't talk to anybody else?"

"Not really. I mean... they all knew. That's the problem with growing up in a tiny town: everybody hears everything. I guess I was the weird kid. They used to whisper back when I was younger. 'His mother went crazy,' they would say, 'they had to lock her up in the mad house.'" his lips curl with bitter derision in the mockery of a smile. "Some of them still remember. Kids are cruel."

“And how did that make you feel?” Natalie asks kindly.

The boy in front of her leans back in the chair, neck rolling up so he can stare at the ceiling, “Angry, I guess,” he mumbles.

“You guess?”

“It’s true,” he shrugs. “What they said: it’s all true.”

She glances down at her file, then looks up at the boy, “How did you react to this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

“I punched Jackson Whitmore in the face. He deserved it,” the boy gets defensive, “I’d do it again, I don’t care that his dad is some hot-shot lawyer and he’s rich. I don’t care that he’s insecure because he’s adopted. I don’t care: that’s the problem.”

“We’re not talking about Jackson,” she tries to steer the conversation back on track, “Why did you punch him?”

“I told you: because he deserved it.”

“How did you feel?”

He shrugs again, a lifeless thing. “Angry. I wanted to beat his face in and keep beating. I wanted to see him hurt, I wanted him to know what it felt like.”

She nods slowly. The boy in front of her is full of repressed emotions. He’s grown up practically isolated and alone, but she’s never been one to judge.

"I think that's enough for today," she says, "We're out of time, but I think you're doing really well."

"Yeah," Stiles says, tone dull, as he stands up and heads over to the door, "That's what all the shrinks say."

 

She's beautiful.

If there is one thing that is clear to see about Lydia Martin it is this. She is beautiful.

For the first time; she wishes she wasn't.

The boy was called Jackson. He was harmless with expensive clothes and well-designed hair. He was kind of hot.

But he wanted an air-headed girl to hang off his arm and be paraded about. Once upon a time Lydia would have loved that, but now she wants someone who can see _her_. She wants somebody who looks beyond her beauty.

Yes, she's beautiful, that's practically a fact. The sky is blue, the sun is hot, Lydia Martin is beautiful.

But she's clever too and why can't anyone see that?

Jackson doesn't see it. She remembers her last boyfriend: and he hadn't seen it either. Nobody ever does.

Her beauty is a curse, she thinks, and her green eyes look watery in the mirror. With a shriek and a burst of anger that surprises her, she lashes out, her fist meeting the glass.

It shatters. The shards don't fall down around her; all that happens is that they crack; thin spider webs creeping outwards. They distort the image within, breaking up her perfect facade.

The mirror reflects back her broken reflection. Her green eyes are wide and frantic and blood pours from her wrists like water where the glass has cut her fragile skin.

Movement behind her has her eyes flying to the mirror, catching sight of the door opening and a boy stepping inside. His reflection is as fragmented as her own; dark hair, pale skin dotted with moles and dark eyes that look up, meeting hers in the mirror for a split second.

“What the hell?” she whirls around.

“If you don’t want anyone to get in,” the boy drawls, “Maybe next time you should lock the door.”

“What are you doing in my house?” Lydia demands; fierce and proud with her green eyes blazing like wildfire.

The boy standing in the door fumbles slightly, gesturing behind him and stuttering, “I had a session with your mom. I heard the crash and thought I should check it out.” His gaze is drawn to her bleeding hands and before Lydia can move or say anything, he steps towards her, hands out as if to take hers.

She flinches away, “I don’t even know you,” she snaps.

“Stiles,” he smiles, gently, “Let me look at that… I think you’ve got glass in them.”

His fingers are long and gentle as he reaches out, cradling her wrists and gently running his thumb through the blood on her palms. He steps sideways, turning the tap on and leading her to it. “Lydia,” she finds herself replying as he rinses a wash cloth, wiping away the blood.

“Is this okay?” he asks, meeting her gaze. He’s taller than her, looking down with soft brown eyes.

She arches into the warm cloth, and then hisses as it stings, “It hurts,” she whispers.

“Well, yeah,” he grins, “What did you do, punch the mirror?”

The looks she sends him is unimpressed, but it doesn't seem to faze him. He grins and his eyes sparkle. He's cute, she thinks. Not her usual brand of well-muscled jock guys but...

She shakes those thoughts away, wincing again as he rinses the cloth and lays it over her hand, "Do you have bandages somewhere?" he asks, looking around the bathroom.

Her thoughts interrupted, she tugs her arms back from him. "I'm sure I can manage just fine from here on out," she says, her tone sharp.

"Your fists aren't going to meet another mirror, are they?" the boy in front of her - Stiles - sounds concerned. Like a complete stranger with issues bad enough to warrant a meeting with her mother has any right to be concerned.

"What sort of name is Stiles?" she asks another question instead of answering.

He doesn't seem bothered, but looks a bit awkward standing in front of her, blood still speckling his hands, "It's a nickname," he says, sounding embarrassed, "My first name is pretty hard to pronounce and after one too many people saying it wrong I started being known as Stiles."

"Fascinating," she says, sounding anything but.

He grins again, and she wants to smile back however hesitantly.

But she can't. She can barely deal with herself, let alone a boy who is probably just as broken as she is.

"I'll... leave you to it," he says, making an awkward gesture at the door, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Lydia Martin. I'll see you around." He makes a tiny awkward duck of his head and almost walks straight into the door. Lydia fights down a giggle that might be slightly hysterical. "Ah," he beams, "So she _can_ smile."

Her face grows cold, smile dying, "What about it? Just because you found me having a... a... mental breakdown in the bathroom bleeding everywhere and crying, god look at me. I'm pathetic..."

"I didn't mind," Stiles sounds unbothered, and Lydia tries to tell herself to shut up because this isn't getting rid of him any faster... "I think you look really beautiful when you cry."

And that's creepy. That is so weird but Lydia... she feels oddly touched. Not knowing why she makes a gesture towards the corner cabinet, "There are bandages in there," she says, and this time his smile isn't a beam, it's soft and gentle as he moves over to help her bandage up her bleeding hands.

 

"Lydia," her mother says when she comes downstairs a day or so later. Natalie is sitting at the kitchen island with two other people in the room. "These are our neighbours: Melissa and Scott McCall."

Lydia recognises Scott. He smiles at her like a puppy. He looks a lot like his mother, a tired woman with long, frizzy hair.

"My daughter," Natalie says, "This is Lydia." She turns to Lydia. The guests can't see her from this angle and she uses that to make exaggerated mouthing of instructions to her. 'Be nice' and 'Don't worry'. Lydia ignores her, "Melissa was just welcoming us to the neighbourhood. I believe Scott is in your year at school."

"That's right," Scott nods his head, "We see each other around but we're mostly in different classes."

"It's wonderful to meet you," Melissa says, but there is something in her voice. Worry, maybe, or what could almost be fear. "Your mother was telling us about your amazing GPA. Maybe you should tutor Scott: he could use some help with his English grade." There was a two second pause, "And his chemistry. And possibly his economics."

"Nah, Coach is promising me an A if I lead the team to a win in lacrosse," Scott says, then blanches, "I mean... I've really made progress in economics."

Melissa laughs. Something about it feels flat, but maybe that's just Lydia.

"I brought a casserole. I know you're still getting settled in and I'm told it's the best of my few dishes," Melissa laughs and Scott smiles, but all their movements feel strained. "You must have liked this house, huh?" Melissa continues, "It's... history... didn't put you off?"

"History?" her mom asks with one raised eyebrow as if she hadn't even bothered to research the place before buying.

"No," Lydia says, because she at least knows; she had thought it appropriate, "I thought it just made this old house more fascinating."

"You didn't tell me about its history, Lydia," there is a scolding note in her mother's tone.

"Yes," Melissa jumps on that, and her son nudges her sharply. The woman ignores that, still talking. "There was a fire about six years back that killed the family here. Several murders... they rebuilt the house of course, but it's last occupants also experienced a tragic loss... it's actually on the Murder House tour."

Natalie looks shocked and slightly alarmed and Lydia tries to work out why her pulse is racing.

"You didn't know?" Melissa looks shocked, "I'm so sorry... I thought you were aware of that when you bought it and..."

"Mom," Scott snaps sharply, making a violent jerk of his head that looks almost like he's telling her 'no'. "I'm sure they don't want to hear about this... besides... it's all in the past. It's not like they're going to move just because of a few old horror stories."

His mother looks terribly sad for a moment, but relaxes, "Of course," she whispers, smiling that almost regretful smile at Lydia and her mother, "I'm sorry: I should let you enjoy your new home. Just..." she cuts herself off with a shake of her head and a weak laugh.

Natalie laughs with her, and Lydia turns to Scott, lowering her voice, "You know it's funny," she says, "For a moment there I thought your mother was going to say 'be careful'."

Scott's expression is bleak, and he doesn't say anything.

 

She's been partnered with Scott McCall for biology.

"Should you even be in this class?" she asks with a sniff, eyeing his hair which is in disarray and his notes which are even more so.

He frowns at her in that stupid puppy-way of his. He doesn't even look offended, "I want to be a vet," he says, "And I need this course. It's not easy but I can do it. My grades might not be the highest but that's because school..." he pauses for a split second longer than normal, then continues as if nothing had happened, "school has been difficult recently."

She doesn't pry further. If Scott doesn't want to tell her she doesn't care. It's not like she has been open about her past.

"Fine," she says, "Come over tonight."

His face falls, "I can't do tonight. My..." again his words stumble, "My friend's helping me study for an English test."

Lydia just shrugs, "They can come too. We can make it a study session." She doesn't know why she throws out the invitation. It might be because she likes Scott: he's a good person. It might be because she needs to expand her social circle.

Scott _beams_. "Really? That's great - you'll love her, seriously, you'll get on so well..."

Lydia smiles. Of course, she thinks, she's sure it will all be great.

Surprisingly: it is.

Allison is neither vain and vapid nor blonde and stupid. She is nothing like Lydia expects.

She's a brunette. She has long curling hair and dimples when she smiles. She and Scott are ridiculously cute together. She's also wearing some really nice clothes.

"Thanks," she says, when Lydia compliments her taste in jackets, "My mom does some work with boutiques in San Francisco."

"Why have I not met you yet?" Lydia marvels, realising seconds too late that she said it out loud.

Allison smiles, glancing at Scott and then back to Lydia, "I'm home-schooled," she shrugs weakly, "We move around a lot and I had to retake a year, and after some... trouble... at school... I mostly stay at home."

She breaks up her sentences the same way Scott does. As if she's avoiding talking about something.

Lydia doesn't care.

She thinks she might just have found friends. The boy next door and his maybe-girlfriend.

For the first time she thinks that moving is the best thing that ever happened to her.

 

Natalie makes a show of rifling through her notes, giving the boy in front of her time to settle down and stop fidgeting. It's difficult for him: it's practically part of his make-up.

"Last week we touched upon your mother and how other people viewed the situation. I wanted to know how you saw your mother?"

He gives her a blank stare and his eyes are just a little bit too dead.

"How did you feel about her?" Natalie asks, not sure how emotional the boy finds this topic. On the surface he barely seems affected by the topic, but it's what she can't see that is important.

He gives her a stare that is almost identical to one Lydia likes to give her. It's one of those ones that says 'are you an idiot?' "I loved her," he says, "She's my mom, how else would I feel about her?"

"Lingering feelings of anger or resentment would not be uncommon," Natalie says, quietly, and Stiles stiffens. "Do you feel angry that she died?"

“I miss her,” the boy admits, “I’m not angry that she died, I’m angry that she left us. I’m angry that she left this… this monster in her place."

Natalie looks up sharply from her notes but doesn't ask why he chooses that word. If he wants to explain himself he will. She is here to guide, not push.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and his gaze drifts around her office, "Your daughter's pretty," is the last thing Natalie expects to hear, "She's really smart as well, and I mean really smart."

"We're not here to talk about my daughter."

"Does she have a boyfriend?" Stiles asks, brown eyes flicking to her, "She strikes me as someone who would have a line of them."

"She did," Natalie feels her smile grow thin, "None since Aiden. Boys aren't her priority," she laces her words with warning but all Stiles does is smile.

"That's good: boys aren't exactly my priority either."

 

Lydia is reading a large, thick blue textbook on Advanced Physics when she gets the feeling that someone is watching her. She doesn't react straight away, just turns the page and uses the movement to flick her gaze to her door where the boy in a plaid shirt leans, just staring at her.

She waits another five minutes, just to see what he'll do. "You could try knocking," she says, "I hear people do it in polite company."

"Ah," he says, "Who says I'm polite company?"

"You'll have to be," Lydia finally looks up, acknowledging him, "If you want to come in my room."

He smiles and taking that as an invitation practically bounces through the door, dropping to the ground in a tangle of limbs in front of her, "I love how smart you are," he says, gazing in awe at the heavy text book she's reading, "Stanford?"

"Of course," she smiles, genuinely appreciating his awe at her, "I could probably graduate early but I... there were some issues."

"You mean the crazy thing?" Stiles waves his finger in a circle by his head, "Personally I think we're all a little crazy. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong."

Lydia starts out indignant and hurt but ends up weirdly comforted by the time the sentence is finished, "You're seeing my mom," she says, "Does it help?"

He shrugs, and for a moment she thinks he'll clam up, but instead he answers her, "I think it does. We've been talking about my mom though and that... that's not my favourite topic. She died. When I was 11."

"Oh," the air rushes out of her lungs, "My parents divorced," she says, "It was one of those big messy things you usually only see on TV that lasts months," Lydia laughs weakly.

Stiles meets her eyes, his smile soft and comforting, and in that moment Lydia thinks she knows the strange boy better than she ever did the boys she's had in her room before.

And like that, she shifts over on her bed, slamming her heavy book closed and patting the sheet next to her, "Come on," she says, "the floor can't be that comfortable."

His grin is wonderful, but it's the spark in those brown eyes that makes her fall just a little bit in love.

 

"Why are we in the basement?"

"Haven't you heard the stories?" Allison's dimples are more mischievous than innocent as she practically skips down the stairs, "This house has so many; how can we not check it out?"

"We'll tell you a ghost story," Scott makes his voice low, attempting to sound spooky, "This house has plenty after all."

Lydia shoves him in the shoulder, "Stop trying to scare me away," she snaps, "Asshole." He puts up with her good natured scolding, grinning wildly.

"I know a good one," Allison says. "You need to hear it..."

"In the basement?" Lydia asks, dubiously.

Allison has fast become Lydia's best friend. Scott, by extension, is around Lydia's house more often than not. And Lydia can't find it in herself to complain.

"Yes!" Allison declares, "We're going to share ghost stories!" her laugh echoes through the basement. "I thought it would be fun!"

"You have a weird definition of fun!" Lydia's heels wobble, but she makes it to the bottom of the steps with elegance. The basement is what she expects it to be. It's cold and dark and there are wooden shelves coated in thick, thick dust. "Uh," she sniffs, trying not to sneeze, "We really need to give this place a clean."

"No, I like it," Allison trails a finger in the dust, "It gives the place _ambiance_ ," she says the word with a perfect French accent.

"Why can't we go out shopping like normal people do?" Lydia asks, but seeing Scott's expression she adds, "Or a movie. I'm sure there is something halfway decent on."

"But..." Allison walks around with a bounce to her step, "Who else hosts guests like Lydia Martin does?" she dissolves into pleasant laughter that warms the whole basement up.

Scott settles down on a chair there, looking slightly uncomfortable. It's cold and Lydia shivers. There are goose bumps on Scott's arms but Allison barely seems to feel it. "So go on then," Lydia pokes at a jar with something disgusted pickled inside that has probably been there for years, "You said you knew of some good horror stories."

Allison leans forwards from where she is perched on some crates, "Oh, but these are even better, Lydia. These ones are real. They happened _right_ _here_."

Despite herself Lydia shivers and settles down to listen. Allison has a way of speaking that seems more real somehow than the actual wood and stone surrounding her.

And Lydia? Well, Lydia has always been good at listening.

"There was a family. An old, ancient family. Rumours were they were cursed, and nobody wanted to talk to them. They were weird. They worshipped the moon, ran in the woods naked and had initiation rights for their children. They were called the Hales."

"Not anymore," Lydia says, primly.

"Lydia, you're not meant to interrupt!" Allison says, exasperatedly.

"You really need to get out more," she says, unimpressed.

"I'm home-schooled," Allison rolls her eyes, "Besides... my parents..." she stops and shrugs again. "The Hales were a massive family, but tragedy happened. The house burnt down in a terrible fire. What you see here they rebuilt from the ashes and rubble of the old house but it... it was different. Special. They built it with the bones and ashes of their family and stuff like that makes a difference."

"That's not that scary," Scott says, somewhat hesitantly.

"Shhh," Allison waves her hands at him, "You're meant to be setting a good example!"

Scott mimes zipping his lips shut.

"The Hales were broken. One was catatonic, and another was pretending nothing ever happened."

"So what happened?" Lydia presses, curious, despite herself.

"They found out that the fire wasn't an accident," Allison's smiles is wolfish and full of teeth bared in the dark, "The uncle who was in a catatonic state came out of it insane. He killed his own niece and tried to kill the remaining siblings too. He went after the people who had been responsible for the fire. The insurance investigators who claimed it to be arson. The people who lit the match and the woman who engineered it all. He tore them into shreds like a wild animal."

"Jesus," Lydia whispers.

"Yeah," Allison says, "He left the woman who planned it out for last. He lured her here, to the house. But she came armed. Only then was he able to rip her throat out. Rumour is he used his teeth to do so."

Lydia doesn't know what to say.

"He did it in the living room. Apparently if you peel off the wallpaper you can still see the blood splatters."

"What happened to him?"

"His nephew killed him," Allison says, "He and his sister lived here for years after that. They rode out the investigation and stayed in the house, but living where their uncle had gone mad... they went the same way. They were found poisoned one day, dead, the pair of them."

"I had heard about the fire..." Lydia said, as Allison concluded her tale, "But I didn't know about the uncle... how did you hear that? Is it even real?"

"Of course it's real," Allison laughs and Lydia wants to ask more, wants to know why there is that note of complete and utter certainty in her voice, but she is interrupted by her mother shouting down the stairs.

"Lydia!" her mother calls, startling her out of her rapture, "Lydia, come here a moment!"

"I'll be right back," she says to her friends, and both give her unbothered waves as she goes up the stairs leaving Scott and Allison alone in the dark.

 

Scott moves over once Lydia is gone to sit beside Allison. He presses against the line of her body, and one of his hands finds hers, "Are we going to tell her?" he whispers in her ear.

Allison shrugs one shoulder, letting the boy lean over to her, “She’ll find out eventually. They always do.”

Scott worries his lip with his teeth and making a small noise of complaint. Allison turns to face him and with a soft smile, she leans over to capture his lips in a kiss.

“Shhh,” she murmurs, “It's okay, don't worry."

Scott runs his hand through her hair, seemingly amazed by the feel of her so close to him, Their fingers interlock and Allison guides his hand to her hip, pressing it down and keeping it there.

Scott closes his eyes, and tries not to feel the torn flesh wound, just above the curve of his thumb.


	2. immovable object

"You _like_ her."

Stiles glances over his shoulder at the man lounging behind him. "Peter," he says. Today Peter looks about twenty nine. His face is a morphed mess of burn scars, "No plastic surgery today?" Stiles jokes.

Peter glares at him. There are days he looks like a teenager. There are days he looks like he does right now: the thirty eight odd years he is meant to be with the scars that will never heal. "She's pretty," Peter says instead, leaning towards Stiles until he is pressed against Stiles' back, plastering his chest against Stiles' spine. "Beautiful, actually. And remarkably clever... I like her."

"She's _mine_ ," Stiles snaps, possessively. Peter isn't offended, he just trails one hand over Stiles' chest, until the teenager is almost wrapped in his embrace.

"Yes," Peter agrees mildly, "And you're mine." His hand slips up, fingers tracing Stiles' jaw, curling around and tugging the boy around to look at him.

With a snarl Stiles pulls away, "You're a fucking creep," he snaps, taking several steps away from Peter, "You know I don't like it when you look like that!"

The man clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, "How shallow, Stiles." He shakes his head slowly, "I thought you were above that."

"When it comes to you?" Stiles pulls a face, "Your personality needs some benefits."

"And here I thought you enjoyed my stunning wit," Peter drawls, losing interest quickly, "I think I should reintroduce myself to her."

"She'll turn you down," Stiles sounds confident in his knowledge of Lydia Martin. He should be after all, he's been watching her carefully. It's probably a little creepy but he's never met someone as perfect as Lydia before.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," there is a grin in the man's voice, and dark promises of things to come that sends shivers down Stiles' spine. He ducks his head, no longer meeting the man's gaze. Peter's been dead longer than he has, after all, and when he had first died Peter had been the one to give him the ghost 101. When he looks back up, it's to a teenager with dark, dirty blonde hair. "What do you think?" Peter asks, with the same lilting tone that had once enraptured Stiles.

So he's honest. "I think she'll see right through you."

Peter just grins, "One can only hope. After all: I like them smart and beautiful, don't you agree, Stiles?"

 

She's in the garden, shivering as she waits for Prada. That's when he comes to her with a soft smile and her traitorous dog trotting at his heels, "You really should learn to close your gate," he says, gently, "Well? Aren't you going to invite me in?"

She crosses her arms, examining the boy, "Peter Hale," she deadpans, "Is that your real name or some sort of sick joke?"

"Ah..." he gestures at the building behind her, "You've got me. I used to live here. Most of my family died here."

She raises one eyebrow, not sure whether to believe him or not, "You used to live here?" she asks, trying to calculate the years. It's possible. She'll have to ask Allison what members of the family survived. She had only heard about one girl her age who was adopted, but maybe she missed one.

"Yeah," he smiles, ducking his head, sheepishly, "I just wanted to check out who bought the house. The last family who lived here were some big hot weapons dealers. So sue me for my curiosity."

She regards him calmly, trying to work out his angle. She's not sure how old he is, and she doesn't really want to ask. He's older than her, that's for certain.

He's also kind of good looking. But for some reason her mind is drawn to Stiles.

Then with a charming smile he reaches out to the trellis that he's suddenly standing by, plucking a blue flower down. "Here," he says, handing the blossom to her, "For a beautiful girl."

"Really?" she asks, but she takes the flower enjoying the feeling of someone flirting with her. With a sigh, she relents, "Want to come in?"

He smiles, and it's smooth and his blue eyes watch her with detached curiosity as she leads him into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. "I like what you've done with the place," he gestures around. "The last time I saw it... it was considerably more burnt and charred."

Lydia busies herself with fishing out a bowl for sugar so she doesn't have to answer.

"I don't think I caught your name."

"Lydia Martin," she says, and he reaches out, taking her hand. For a moment she thinks he's going to kiss her wrist, but instead he just holds her hand gently.

His gaze is drawn to the bandages wrapped around her palm, "Did you cut yourself?" he asks, curiously.

She wrenches her hand away, feeling the sting of mirror shards beneath her skin, "An accident," she lies and she doesn't understand why he smiles like that. "So tell me, Peter Hale, were you really just curious about the house, or did you have an ulterior motive for stalking out my back garden?"

"I'll admit it," he throws up his hands, gently; "I'm drawn to narcissistic teenage girls."

She barely manages to refrain from rolling her eyes. She's not meant to be playing this boy's game. He's barely been inside for less than five minutes and she's already regretting her decision. Her fingers tap anxiously on the table top and she wishes he would stop sipping his tea so damn slowly and just go...

"You know, I'd love to see what you've done with this place," Peter says, gesturing to the walls, "Might I have a tour?" He knows he is pushing, she can see the amusement in his gaze and shudders from it. She blinks and for just a moment the boy is not a boy. For just a moment he's a man covered in dirt with brilliant red eyes.

She flinches back, her tea sloshing out onto the clean floor.

Peter's smile grows wider and he leans forwards, "So, Lydia," he practically molests her name with his mouth, "What do you think?"

There is something dangerous about the boy in front of her, and she twists a blue flower between reddened fingers that are beginning to go numb.

"That's pretty," a voice drifts into the room from behind her, "Is that for me?"

Cool fingers slide the blossom from her grip, relieving the burn beginning to seep through her finger tips. She turns, meeting Stiles’ soft brown eyes and curled languid smile.

That's funny, Lydia thinks; she hadn't known Stiles had been having a session with her mother.

Stiles straightens, gaze sliding past her to where Peter sits. The older boy's smile has grown thin and strained. "Peter!" Stiles says, enthusiastically, "Enjoying Miss Martin's hospitality?"

"Indeed," Peter says, voice stilted.

"You..." Lydia's voice wavers, "You two know each other?"

Stiles laughs, but it sounds somewhat hollow, "We're acquainted," he says, and his hands are empty, Lydia notices. The flower he had been holding is gone. "How are you?" Stiles meets her gaze, for a moment totally serious and Lydia feels grounded. Like she had been a balloon Peter had untied to drift in the breeze, but now Stiles had caught her.

"Perfect," she says, "Peter was just leaving, weren't you?"

Peter knows when he's beaten, sliding out of his seat towards the door, his cup of tea untouched. Picking it up, Lydia notices it is ice cold.

She misses Stiles' triumphant smile to Peter as the other boy slips out of the door.

 

"You should tell her," Scott says. He sits on the roof. He had slipped out of the one window and now sits at a point where the roof slopes together. He used to sit here with Allison and listen to her parents argue. Allison isn't here now though. Oh, she's around. If he looks hard enough he can always find her. It's harder now that the Martins have moved in, but Scott and Allison used to sneak around under her parent's noses all the time. Now is no different.

There is a sigh and Stiles swings his legs over the edge like he's a little kid again. Scott examines his friend, taking in the roughly spiked hair and the dark shadows under his eyes that never really seem to leave. "Tell her what?" he asks, as if he has no idea what his best friend is talking about.

"You know what," Scott tells him reproachfully.

Stiles doesn't answer. He swings his legs and stares at the street and pretends he can't hear what Scott is saying.

"You and her... you're not going to work. What if you hurt her...?"

"I wouldn't!" Stiles snaps indignantly, "I would never..."

"Not intentionally..." Scott argues, "But..."

"You're a hypocrite," Stiles’ voice is tense, "What about you and Allison, huh? You and I both know that's not going to work out."

Scott bristles, because it could have worked out. It could have been perfect but Stiles... Stiles had destroyed that. Even now though, he doesn't blame his friend. How could he? Stiles was his best friend.

Stiles still _is_ his best friend.

He keeps silent in case he says something he will regret.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers. It sounds like a whisper of wind it is so quiet. Like Stiles is barely even there, he's just become one with the world around him, only a faint figure there to distinguish him.

"Yeah," Scott says, because Stiles might have doomed them, but he'd doomed Stiles as well, "So am I."

 

Water pours over her shoulders, plastering her hair to her back. Lydia sinks her head under the shower head and lets the hot water pour over her, washing her worries away. For a moment she doesn't have to worry about school. She doesn't have to worry about creepy boys from her back garden, nor does she have to worry about stupidly cute boys with moles and funny noses and some form of mental health problems.

After all, she's got her own mental health to worry about.

She blinks and for a moment her hands are black. She blinks and for a moment the water running over her is red.

Lydia clenches her eyes closed and when she opens them everything is fine. Everything is normal.

She adjusts the temperature of the shower, humming slightly under her breath. She reaches around the shower curtain for where she had left the hair shampoo, wincing at the cold air hitting her body.

Her wet fingers find the bottle, and she snatches it back in, just as something thumps over the other side of the curtain.

Lydia pauses.

"Mom?" she calls. There is no answer.

Maybe she knocked something over when reaching for the shampoo. She tugs the curtain back, peering around it to see what she knocked over.

There is a toothbrush and the cup it was sitting it sitting in lying innocently on the bathroom floor. Lydia's blood runs cold because there's a problem.

She can't have knocked that toothbrush over because it's on the other side of the room. "Mom?" she calls again, but her mother isn't around. "Is someone there?" she calls, tugging back the shower curtain. She'll wash her hair later, she thinks, grabbing a towel and stepping out towards the toothbrush.

There is nothing wrong with it. Picking it and the cup up, she tucks it back on its shelf where it had last been. It's stable, it's not too near the edge...

Something moves in the mirror.

Lydia spins around.

The room is empty.

Turning back she stares at the new ornate mirror she had been forced to buy after smashing the old one. It's fogged up with steam and Lydia can only see a blurred figure of herself.

There is something else shadowed over her shoulder and her heart thudding in her chest, she reaches out one cautious hand to wipe away the steam.

There is a man behind her with red eyes and skin that is red and burnt and--

Lydia stifles a scream, whirling around but there is nobody there. Turning back to the mirror she sees only her own frantic green-eyed reflection.

She closes her eyes, taking several deep breathes. She opens them. The room is still empty.

Great, now she's giving herself hallucinations. Curling her lip in disgust at herself, Lydia scrubs at the steam in the mirror for a few seconds before whirling around. She's imagining things.

But the toothbrush...

She's imagining things, she tells herself fiercely.

It must have been just a breeze, she convinces herself, because stuff like that doesn't happen.

It doesn't.

 

Her hair is still wet when she gets downstairs. Her mother looks up and it's becoming almost commonplace for someone else to be sitting there, Lydia thinks. She doesn't enter, instead she lingers, watching as her mom flirts.

"Well?" she makes an appearance when her mom's friend is gone, carefully hiding any and all nervousness in her voice. She needs her mom to think that everything is fine. She needs normality, right now.

"Oh, just someone I met the other day about the house," Natalie smirks, smugly. "He was doing a survey or something..."

"And he happened to stay for coffee," she deadpans, "Mom, he's about ten years younger than you," Lydia rolls her eyes.

"I know. Still got it," Natalie smirks, waving a piece of paper.

"That's a phone number," Lydia blinks, "So who's the lucky guy?"

"He used to live in the area, apparently," her mom shrugs, grabbing her bag and keys as she begins to head out, "Peter Hale," she says, "That's his name."

And Lydia's heart just stops.

 

"Stiles," she asks, next time she finds the boy lurking around her house, "Tell me about Peter."

He stares at her and it looks like she physically punched him, "Come on, Lyds," he says, "Peter? Really?"

She chews her lip and wonders if this is all her, imagining things again. Stiles grabs onto her hands, stopping her frantic twitching and he smiles. It's gentle and perfect and Lydia can't get her heart to slow down.

She's scared, she realises, scared that what happened before is going to happen again. She has been pretending she's fine, she has been pretending everything is going to be okay.

It won't be. She's a cracked mirror and eventually something has to break.

She doesn't really think as she leans into the warm body next to her. She certainly isn't using her rational mind as she presses forwards, her lips to his as she kisses him.

His lips are cool. Soft and receptive and he makes this tiny little gasp as she pulls away. His brown eyes are wide, staring at her with wonder. His gaze is and piercing, like exposed knife blades. She's scared she might cut herself on them.

"Why did you do that?" he whispers, like the breath has been punched from him.

"I don't know," she admits, and it might be the most honest thing she's ever said.

But it's okay, she thinks, because she's nothing more than broken shards of glass and they can cut each other to ribbons as he leans closer, cradling her jaw like she's something precious. He's hesitant and gentle and everything her previous boyfriends weren't. He's uncertain and cautious, but there is emotion in every movement and touch as for a moment they breathe in sync together and then he closes the gap between them and kisses her back.

 

"I hate that we have to steal..." there is a pause as Scott locks his lips with hers for a few long seconds before breaking away, "...steal moments like these..." he continues, panting slightly. "Does Lydia even know we're making out in her basement?"

"I think so," Allison huffs, her hair mussed and she blows a stray strand from in front of her eye, "That's why she made an excuse to grab some food while we... 'study'," she makes air quotes, giggling slightly, "I feel like a teenager," she laughs.

"Uh... maybe because we are teenagers," Scott says.

Allison grins, her smile a slash in the darkness, "You're adorable," she croons, pressing her hand flat against her chest and meeting his lips in a passion-filled kiss.

"You two are sickening."

Scott pauses, moving so that he and Allison are no longer pressed together lips to lips. She misses him as soon as they're not touching, so she curls her cold hand into his t-shirt. Their breath mingles and she blinks lazily at him, seeing her own flicker of annoyance reflected in his brown eyes, her hair falling across her face as Scott turns his head to where the blonde woman is watching them.

"Do you get your kicks off watching two teenagers making out in a basement?" Allison taunts

"Can't I visit my favourite niece?" Kate Argent mocks, voice low. She's young. She was still in her twenties when she died. Allison remembers last year when her dad moved here. Even now she wonders if her dad had picked the house his sister died in on purpose or if it was just a good deal.

She remembers the initial grief of dealing with her mother's suicide. And she remembers how the dreams of her aunt had morphed slowly into the reality.

She's sick of Kate haunting her. Without letting go of her boyfriend, Allison turns sideways so that her shoulder is pressed to his chest and his arm is wrapped around her. Scott looks nervous but Allison lifts up her chin, meeting Kate's gaze. She won't let her aunt hurt Scott.

"What do you want, Kate?" Allison asks.

Kate crosses her arms, sneering, "I heard you were telling ghost stories. Should I be honoured that I guest-starred? Even if it was as the villain?"

"You should be grateful you featured at all," Allison sneers, matching her aunt for vitriol.

"The girl living here is precious, isn't she?" the blonde woman scoffs, "She's half psychotic already, she'd be so much fun to break."

Allison doesn't move, but her gaze hardens, "She's my best friend. I don't want you to hurt her."

Her aunt pulls a face, tugging idly at the silver necklace around her neck, "You're dead, Allison. You can't be best friends if one of you isn't even breathing." Her gaze slides sideways to where Scott is pressed to her back, "Can't imagine it does anything for the romance aspect, either... want some help with that?"

"Leave Scott alone," Allison says, "And leave Lydia alone as well, she never did anything to you."

Kate shrugs, seemingly uncaring.

"If Allison's warning isn't enough, then you touch Lydia and I'll kill you. I don't care if we're both dead already. I'll kill you again until you're beyond death."

Scott jumps at her back. She feels him twist to stare at where Stiles has materialised on the stairs. He wasn't there seconds ago, but the appearing and disappearing people in the house are one of the many things Allison has had to grow used to.

"Awww," Kate croons, "I see Allison isn't the only dead teenager in love," her voice is sickening and while Allison knows to some extent that her aunt still cares for her, there is no love spared towards the pale skinny white boy, perched on the stairs. "You think you'll get a happy ending?"

If she was meant to be intimidating, she fails, "Are you threatening me?" his head tilts to one side in that same easy movement Allison has seen before.

Kate scoffs, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulders and crossing her arms, "Maybe if you weren't already dead... but then again..." her gaze drifts over to where Scott sits, and Allison is keenly aware of his racing, warm, beating pulse.

Allison's gaze hardens and Stiles shifts, looking like he's about to move when the stairs creak.

"Stiles?" Lydia's voice drifts down, "Scott? Allison?"

"Hey, beautiful," Stiles' face changes in a flash, the cold edge evaporating into something soft and warm. It changes his whole appearance as he leans to peer up at where Lydia moves down towards them. The strawberry blonde's gaze scans the basement, focussing on Scott and Allison but skimming right over Kate.

Allison casts her aunt one more warning glare. Kate just smirks, flickering her fingers in a little, mocking wave.

"I was just chatting with Scott and Allison," Stiles shrugs, talking to Lydia.

"You know them?"

"Stiles is my best friend," Scott says, even though the words are hollow. "We've known each other since we were kids."

Allison turns, keeping Kate in the corner of her eye as she looks to where Lydia is gazing curiously at them. That's the only reason she sees the moment Kate reaches out, knocking a glass jar off a shelf like some self-content cat. It teeters on the edge for a long moment, then falls with a crash. The shards shatter outwards, and whatever may have once been preserved within leaves a wet splash on the dark tiles.

Lydia jumps. Scott spins around, grasping onto Allison's shoulder as he looks to where he knows Kate is standing, but he can no longer see her.

"What was that?" Lydia takes another step down towards the basement, and smoothly Stiles straightens, grasping hold of her wrist.

His voice is light and easy, "You know old houses like these," he shrugs, "They're full of ghosts."

"Yeah," Kate mocks, "More than you'd think."

"Come on," Allison says, "It was probably a breeze or something."

Lydia's green gaze is piercing. She already knows there is more going on than appears, but instead of pressing the issue she lets Stiles guide her back up the stairs with a sniff, "Let's get out of the basement," Lydia shudders, "This place is creepy."

"Yeah..." Allison meet's Kate's mocking smirk, "That's one word for it."

 

"Tell me about your mother. Why do you call her a monster?” Natalie asks Stiles in one of their later sessions.

“It’s called Frontotemporal dementia,” he says, as if she had asked a question where that answer might be relevant. But then he keeps talking, “It affects the brain. The tissue begins to break down and atrophy. Mostly at the start is affects memory, but later rational thought and a person's perception on everything. The world becomes something strange. Something different. It’s like… like you look at everybody and see monsters.”

Natalie stays silent, letting the boy talk.

“She recognised dad. She always recognised dad but I… she didn’t even know I was her son. She thought I was a monster. Something to be put down. Like drowning puppies at birth."

Natalie doesn’t ask if his mother tried drowning him. She doesn’t ask if Claudia Stilinski tried to put him down.

“I think that’s enough for today,” she says instead, and watches the boy smile, thank her and leave.

 

The doorbell rings at some absurdly late hour. Lydia answers it without checking who it is and she immediately wishes she hadn't.

"Halloween isn't until next week," she says, trying to hide her racing heartbeat.

"Oh, come on," the blonde woman coos, "Can't you make an exception?"

Lydia eyes her up and down. The woman looks like she's geared for some sort of hunting mission that went wrong if the fake claw marks across her throat dripping blood are anything to go by. It's probably corn syrup or something.

"Please," the woman says, "I'm hurt. Just let me use your phone, call a ride..."

"How about 'no'?" Lydia says smartly, preparing to slam the door in the woman's face. At the last second the woman gets her foot in the way.

"I used to live here, y'know," she says, earnestly, "Can't I just see the house?"

"Yeah," Lydia scoffs, "You and every other person who wants to see Murder House," and shoving her shoulder against the door, she slams it closed in the woman's face.

Rolling her eyes at the absurdity of the situation and thinking _people are crazy_ , Lydia heads back through to the kitchen, reaching for where she had left her phone.

It's not there.

Lydia is frowning, trying to work out when she misplaced it when the doorbell rings again, making her jump.

"Lydia? Will you get that?" her mom calls from upstairs.

This time Lydia isn't stupid. She checks through the peephole to see who it is standing outside.

The porch step is empty.

There is nobody there.

Sighing, Lydia turns back around, her thoughts slipping back to where she could possibly have left her cell phone when with a creak the kitchen door opens.

It speaks a lot about the state of her house that she's expecting Scott to poke his head in, looking for Allison as if she lives here or something, or maybe it's Stiles sneaking in to see her. It could even be Peter being creepy again.

She sees a flash of blonde hair and red blood and then a blink later there is nothing.

Lydia takes a deep breath, trying to tell herself that she is sane and normal and this is not an hallucinat--

The doorbell rings again.

Furious now, Lydia stalks over to it, yanking the front door open wide. She is prepared to shout at whoever it is who is playing mind games on. The door swings inwards and she steps forwards, out onto an empty porch.

There is nobody even there to ring the doorbell.

"Hello?" she calls out, "Whoever this is, it's not funny!"

She slams the door closed, hoping it makes her point clear, then turns around, heading back into the kitchen. She grabs Prada's food, rattling it, but her dog doesn't come running. She frowns, because that's unusual for her little Papillion. She pours it out into a bowl, turning around to put it down and call her dog--

She freezes, and the dog bowl clatters to the floor from her numb fingers.

The blonde woman from before stands by the back door.

"What the hell?" Lydia snaps, her heart thudding in her chest, "What are you doing in here?"

"I just wanted to... pay my respects," the woman sneers, stepping forwards. She doesn't seem to get the message that she's unwanted or unwelcome. The blood congealing on the claw marks across her throat are still dripping blood. It looks awfully, horribly realistic.

It might, Lydia realises, not even be real. Reality after all is not this vibrant, not this much like a horror movie as the woman scoops up a knife from their knife rack, spinning it with practised skill.

She stumbles backwards, falling over herself as she retreats into the hall, "Who are you?" she whispers, glancing around for potential escape routes, "Tell me who you are!"

She whirls around and grabs hold of the front door.

It had been open moments ago. She had opened it... hadn't she?

But now as she yanks on the handle it doesn't move.

"You want to know who I am, banshee girl?" the woman's mocking laugh follows after her down the passage, "I'm the woman Peter Hale ripped to shreds!"

"No..." Lydia whirls around the corner and towards the stairs, "NO!"

"He ripped my throat out. Can't you see?"

Lydia chances a glance down and she sees the woman with her throat ripped open wide, blood dripping down to the floor... "Mom!" she screams, not even making it up the rest of the stairs. She collapses half way up, her hand tightening over the banister as she calls for her mom.

 _This isn't real,_ she tells herself. She murmurs it to herself, shaking, trembling, feeling like she's going to fall apart at the seams, "This isn't real," she whispers again, out loud now. Hearing her voice does nothing to reassure her. She sounds weak and scared. She sounds like a little girl. She says it again, voice stronger, "This is not real."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm as real as anything in this house is gonna’ get," the woman - Kate, it can't be anyone else _but_...

"Lydia, what's going on, I was asleep--" her mom appears at the top of the stairs. Her face crumples first into pity, then into horror and her gaze slides straight past Lydia to Kate. "Who the hell are you?"

Her mom can see her too.

Her mom can see her hallucination.

Kate - it can't really be Kate. Kate is dead. Someone must have chosen to dress up like her as a sick joke or something - Kate stalks patiently and slowly like a content cat around to the bottom of the stairs.

"Lydia, oh my god, Lydia, run!"

She's still shaking when her mom grabs hold of her, tugging her up the stairs and away from where Kate isn't even running. She just walks, one slow step at a time and watches Lydia and Natalie run from her up the stairs.

After all, it's not like they have anywhere else to go.

"Quick!" Natalie says, shoving Lydia towards the master bedroom, "Hide."

"You can see her?" Lydia is still catching up with things, "She's real?"

"Oh, baby," Natalie meets her gaze, looking horrified. She doesn't say anything else. She doesn't have time. Instead she drags Lydia by her arm into the master bedroom. It's the only bedroom with a lock, and Lydia is barely inside than Natalie is slamming the door closed, locking it tightly.

Lydia stands there, not knowing what to do. She can hear Kate's footsteps on the stairs, can hear her mom grabbing for the phone, can hear her own heartbeat pounding in her chest. She's just standing there feeling useless...

"Hello, my name is Natalie Martin and there's an armed intruder in the house--"

Lydia finds a steely calm overcome her. Maybe she's going into shock, she's not sure. She reaches out to the cupboard, pulling out her dad's old baseball bat that somehow ended up with the wrong spouse.

Her mom continues to recite details, casting a worried glance at the door, waiting for the moment of the inevitable crash of the blood strewn intruder to enter and attack them all.

When the police turn up ten minutes later they are still waiting.

That moment never comes.

 

The Sheriff is a kind man with tired, grey eyes. He nods, listening respectively and noting down everything they say. Not once does he suggest they were imagining it or that they made it up.

"Are you okay?" Scott slips in past the police with an unnerving familiarity, "I heard the sirens - what happened?"

"Nothing," Lydia feels more recovered. For now. She wonders how long it will last, "Some sicko knocked on the door dressed up like that woman who got her throat torn out here. She came in here with a knife, but when my mom called the police she left."

"Are you okay?" Scott looks pale and he glances around like he's scared the woman is going to come back at any minute.

"Scott..." the Sheriff finishes talking to her mother about some sort of security alarm or emergency ringer that will summon the police instantly. Her mother is being pretty persistent about getting everything they can because _this has happened to Lydia before..._ "I thought you'd stopped showing up at crime scenes since--"

"Old habits die hard," Scott said brightly over that moment of complete and utter blankness and desperation in the police officers gaze of the unfinished sentence that hangs in the air like a death knoll.

The Sheriff's lips quirk, slightly, "Don't spend all your time hanging out with ghosts, Scott," is all he says, turning to where one of his deputies stand.

"What did he mean by that?" Lydia whispers.

"Huh?" Scott blinks, "Oh, nothing. It's just... I was friends with his son."

Lydia notes the 'was' and the broken look in Scott and the Sheriff's gaze; wisely, she doesn't ask further.

 

"Well?" Kate lounges on the bottom of the basement stairs, a smirk curling at her lips.

"Terrifying," Stiles deadpans, where he stands next to Allison.

Kate inclines her head upwards, listening to the commotion and talk as the police officers search through the house, "I think even daddy dearest decided to show up," she laughs ecstatically, dropping her chin and rolling her neck until she can meet the two teenager's gaze. "I guess he and Scotty-boy can mourn over dead loved ones together now, huh?"

"You absolute bi--" Stiles grabs hold of Allison's wrist before she can punch her aunt in the face, "Why did you do that? Can't you just leave well enough alone? Lydia didn't deserve that!"

"I have to admit," Peter says, from where he's lurking in the shadows, "That was crude, Kate, sweetheart. Even for you."

Allison sighs, fingers curling until her nails scrape her palms. She turns but Stiles is already there, dancing around Peter like a moth fluttering helplessly around a flame. Like the moth that doesn't know the flame will burn it until it's too late, except Stiles is already burnt and she’s honestly not sure who is the moth and who is the flame in this analogy.

Allison honestly isn't sure who is the moth and who is the flame in this analogy, not with the way Peter's eyes spark, his attention immediately fixed on the teenager's lanky form that leans in close to whisper in his ears something that makes Peter's lips quirk.

Today Peter looks like he did before the fire. His skin is unmarred by burns but the red is still in his eyes. His gaze is just the wrong side of madness.

"You know, I think I chose the wrong Hale to seduce," Kate rakes her gaze over Peter.

Allison wants to laugh. The room is like a funhouse mirror with her and Stiles broken reflections of her aunt and Peter. Kate burnt Peter. Peter killed Kate. If the rumours are true then Peter was killed by his own nephew.

And that's not even getting started on the messy tangle of strings and visceral blood that has entrapped Stiles and Allison together for what is looking to be eternity at this rate.

Not that it matters now. Kate and Peter are sniping at each other, worst enemies except nothing they can do to each other is worse than what they've already done.

After all it's not like they can kill each other again.

That's the thing about equality. Everyone is equal when they're dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to finish this: I've written 26k broken into 5-ish chapters and just need to work out how to round it off. However updates will have no pattern due to RL, but I'll try to fit them in when I can. Hope everyone is enjoying this! Comments are love and motivation - let me know your favourite line or something!


	3. constant velocity

"Is this okay?"

He pulls back slightly, eyes impossibly wide and fingers still lightly trailing over the smooth expanse of her skin where her blouse has ridden up. His touch is light and goose bumps tingle in the wake of his warm skin. He's always impossibly gentle with her; like he's scared she's going to break.

Or like he's scared he's going to break her.

"Yes," she says. There is no raw, fiery passion or lust to this. No mutual need for carnal pleasure. This thing with Stiles is raw like a tender wound, pleasurable in the way he treats her like she's the most important thing he's ever seen.

It's new and exciting and thrilling and Lydia wraps herself over him, kissing him in a long, lingering kiss that starts with a spark and just simmers. She can still feel it even after she pulls away. He's hazy eyed, staring at her in wonder.

"It's nice," she hums, smiling shyly at him. And Lydia doesn't do shy, but with this boy - this strange, new, perfect boy who is just as broken as her - she's learning all sorts of things about herself that she had thought were lost or burnt away.

He smiles back, rolling onto his stomach so he's lying next to her. His fingers fidget, never keeping still. "I didn't think it was real at first," she confides in him, "How fucked up is that? I thought a break-in was just another hallucination."

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. His long, deft fingers find her pack of playing cards and he shuffles through them, dealing them out to her. "I believe you," he says, simply. It's enough. Those three words are all she needs.

"What are we playing?" she asks, pushing herself up until she's sitting cross-legged on her bed. He matches her pose.

"Snap," he says, "I'll even let you win, if you want."

They play with the occasional comment and laughter for the next ten minutes or so. Stiles' slams his hand down in a way that sends all the cards flying. Lydia is usually seconds too late, her small hand landing on top of his warm one. She finds herself smiling, and she doesn't even know when she started grinning like an idiot, only that she doesn't want to stop.

She's never been this happy with someone before.

Stiles misses a pair of sixes and Lydia scoops up the much needed cards, not turning over because he's just waiting to say something. "Peter used to live here," he said, rather hesitantly. She's not sure why at first until she realises he's answering her earlier question asked days before.

Lydia nods and it's more shakily than she anticipated, "A fugue state," she says, "That's what they called it. I spent two days in the woods with no idea what I did. When I woke up I was across town, covered in dirt and with a dead body nearby."

Stiles doesn't say anything. He just listens.

"They think I might have been kidnapped. But they never found a suspect and for a long time they suspected I'd killed the guy. They just didn't have any proof. For a while it got really bad. Especially at school, but also for me. I kept sleepwalking. I kept seeing things that weren't there. They made me see a psychologist... I spent some time in an institution but it just made things worse."

She can't meet his gaze. But then he talks and she finds herself looking up at him. "They probably should have locked my mom up after she got violent. But dad was always working and when I told him she wanted to kill me he didn't believe me. He never... he never believed me. He trusted my best friend, but he never trusted his own son and sometimes that hurt more than anything mom tried."

"What was wrong with her?" Lydia asks, voice quiet.

"She had early onset dementia. She kept forgetting stuff and inevitably she... she even forgot she had a son."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, so am I."

"I guess we're both pretty messed up, really."

Stiles' smile is like a knife wound across his face, "We're all lost souls, really."

 

"So tell me," she looks up from her notes to where Stiles sits. His leg is tapping unconsciously against the floor, and his fingers are twitching. Then he pauses, and there are long periods where the boy almost seems to forget how to move.

It's unnerving.

"You said you'd been taking some time off from school. How are you feeling now?"

He looks up at her, eyes dark. He doesn't shrug or do anything a teenager would normally do, just answers her, his tone dull, "It's just quiet. It's not like dad is home at all to notice. And I bet when I go back it will be the same. _There's that kid who went crazy_."

"You didn't go crazy," she says, gently, "It was a health problem - there was nothing you could have done."

He laughs. It's short and low, "I went crazy," he repeats, "The doctors thought I had the same thing as my mother for a bit and... I guess my dad did too, and maybe it would have been easier if they did find something..."

"They gave you the all clear, right?" Natalie asks, "Do you feel safe now, knowing you're not ill?"

He looks at her and she thinks that he is ill. There might not have been a medical reason for the mental breakdown, no brain tumour or atrophy to explain for the sleep paralysis or lucid dreaming. But he's still ill. She can see it in the dark shadows under his eyes, in the disorganised mess of his hair that spikes up in disarray.

"I don't feel safe," he tells her, and she isn't surprised. "I don't feel anything."

"Emotions are a sign that you're human," her voice is gentle, "It's okay to feel something."

He looks up, and for a moment the sunlight outside reflects of his eyes, making them look like a sheen of silver. "What if I don't want to be human? It's just... it's constricting. Life, I mean, life is so temporary. There is nothing to it. It's so fragile and people... people waste it. That makes me so angry I just... I want them to understand how precious it is. I want them to know how easily it can be taken away."

Natalie looks down at her blank piece of paper, trying to decide how best to note this down but realising she can't even begin to try.

He shakes his head angrily, "Humanity is so fragile. It's so easy to hurt someone, break their bone, snap their neck, shoot them full of bullets..."

"Do you think about this a lot?"

"Yeah. I guess so, I mean... I looked it up, they're called intrusive thoughts and apparently everyone has them but... it would just be so easy. And then I wouldn't be the one out of control. I'd have that power; I'd have that control..."

"You realise what killing people involves, don't you?" she says, voice sharp.

He pulls a face, "Yeah, the blood might be an issue," he says, like it's an inconvenience. His gaze flickers up to her and her horrified expression must show because he looks worried, scared; "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" he accuses, defensively, "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm crazy like my mother. Crazy like a fox."

"I don't think you're crazy," she says, but she's lying and they both know it, "I just..." she drops her notes and pen, looking long and hard at Stiles, "I don't think I can help you anymore. I think you need professional help, at a hospital where they can look after you..."

"You want to lock me up," he gazes at her with wide eyes, "Because I'm not right? Not normal?"

"Because you're not well."

He laughs, "But according to the doctors that's the one thing I am. I'm healthy, one hundred percent a-okay."

"Mental health, Stiles, isn't the same as physical health."

"You can't make them send me there. Please."

"I know of a few hospitals nearby with good reviews..."

"You just want me out of your house. You want to shut me away in an insane asylum like you locked up Lydia--"

"Don't--" Natalie bites her tongue, "Stiles, I can't treat you anymore, and I don't want you seeing Lydia."

"What if she wants to see me?"

"I don't want you in my house."

He doesn't argue with her this time, just shoots her this long, piercing look and leaves.

He doesn't shut the door on his way out.

 

“It’s Halloween tomorrow,” Stiles appears in her room, full of purposeful energy as he grabs a spool of thread from where she had been stitching up a hole in her favourite skirt. He unwinds it, wrapping a piece of red string around her finger as he settles down next to her on the bed. There is something in his voice, some joy or eagerness that catches her attention and she looks up to meet his gaze.

He looks nervous, sitting crossed-legged on the bed as she lies there. Her smile feels weak, watery like inks and oil mixing together, “I don’t like Halloween,” she admits to him.

He looks put out. Nervous. “I don’t either,” he confesses, “I was think you and I could get out of here. Go on a date for the day. Somewhere different... get out of the house."

She should say ‘no’. Lydia has not had a good track record with boyfriends, but there is something about Stiles. Something that makes her appreciate the way his fingers curl around hers, and something that makes her nod in agreement. They’re already practically dating and Stiles is right, they do spend and inordinately amount of time in this house, “That sounds nice.”

His smile back is blinding and that nervous energy clinging to him pours off as he unwinds the thread from around her fingers, putting it to one side as he turns to her, "Now... how about we take a look at that Chem project you were working on?"

 

"So..." Allison's dressed smartly. It reminds Scott of the formal night, when she had looked stunning in pale pink. She's wearing black today, and has a mischievous smile on her face as if she knows it looks like a funeral dress and she chose it on purpose.

Scott still isn't sure how ghosts change their clothes, but he has to admit that Allison looks stunning. Her hair is pinned up and she meets him outside his house at least an hour earlier than they had planned for.

She's outside _his house._

Scott can't stop his grin, "How does it feel?"

"It feels..." Allison sucks in the air, as if tasting something other than the dustiness of that house, "Let's go. I want to go everywhere, see everything..." She's brimming with excitement, she's overwhelmed with it. "Come on!" she says, grabbing his hands and Scott's still half-dressed with his shirt unbuttoned but laughing, he is caught up with the whirlwind that is his girlfriend.

She leans in close, her cool breath on his ear temptingly then pulls away, as if she runs fast enough she might escape the curse.

"So... how do you think that's gonna work out?" she jerks her head to where Scott can see Stiles and Lydia together in _the_ house. Both are dressed up a little smarter than usual, that is to say Stiles isn't wearing plaid and Lydia's dress is one that has not yet seen daylight.

"I don't know," Scott says, "But I can't begrudge them this day." He can't. They both look so happy. Scott hasn't seen Stiles smile like that in a long, long time.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Allison bites her lips, worried.

"As safe as it ever could be," Scott sighs.

Allison's hand grips his, and for a moment he can almost kid himself that she's alive. "Come on!" Allison says, "We're wasting time."

 

It's weird, Lydia thinks, walking alongside Stiles. It's almost like she doesn't know how to interact with Stiles when they aren't in that house.

Except that's a lie, because everything is the same. He's still Stiles and she's still Lydia. They fall into their usual routine, casual conversation interspaced with the occasional morbid comment that fits in far more comfortably than it should.

But there is something different. Stiles seems lighter. Happier. His eyes are soft in a way they never have been, his movements light. He's a dork. An adorable idiot, arms flailing as he wildly explains to her about some story or other. She's barely listening, just enjoying the upbeat cadence of his voice, syllables tripping along in its own form of music.

There's no rush, Lydia thinks. They have the whole day.

 

They sit on the beach, tracing pictures in the sand and listening to the waves crash over each other. They have a picnic for lunch and build a fire as it gets dark, Stiles piling it high with wood and letting out a loud whoop as they watch it burn.

It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s the happiest Lydia has been for a long, long time.

“I wish time would just last forever,” Stiles whispers to her. He’s gazing at her with such intensity it should frighten her. It doesn’t. "I like looking out at the ocean," he admits, "It reminds me of how small humans are. How fleeting, in the vast... expanse of this all."

Lydia shoots him a dry look, "You didn't strike me as a philosophical type," she drawls.

He shrugs, “I’m not a fan of school,” he says, “Everyone there… they just… they don’t understand. They’re all so worried about the little things. About stupid, tiny, pointless things and I’m just… I’m just standing there, thinking: ‘can’t they see how tiny and insignificant they are?’ We’re like ants, clinging to the surface of this great, vast world, but then we’re gone and what’s the point? What difference do we make? What purpose is there if we’re just going to die in the end?”

“That’s why we make purpose,” Lydia answers, “We live, we breath, we make sure our species continues.” She finds herself reaching for his hand. She’s cold, despite the fire, and she curls closer to the body of Stiles. Of her boyfriend. It doesn’t help, but it’s comforting more than anything to feel his arms wrap themselves around her. “We find reason in other people,” she admits, scared to meet his gaze.

“Yeah,” he breathes softly, sounding in awe, “Yeah, I guess we do.”

“You’re weird,” she whispers into his chest, “But it’s a good weird. You’re like my own personal anomaly.”

“An anomaly,” he repeats, “Deviance from the norm. I like it.”

“So do I,” her thumb strokes the soft skin where his shirt has hitched up, “Do you want to… I mean…” she lets out a breathless laugh, “This is stupid, I’ve had sex before, but never with someone like you.”

“I had a girlfriend,” she’s not expecting the admittance, and it comes as a surprise. She pulls away just so she can see his face. He looks pensive, cautious, but not sad. Just oddly detached, “It was a hook-up. We never actually expected to stay together but we were just sort of comfortable with each other. She moved away though, and there weren’t any tears or promises to continue. It ended just as it had started. I never… I’ve never met anyone like you. You… you’re fascinating, Lydia. You’re a riddle wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a strawberry-blonde enigma.”

Stiles _gets_ her, Lydia realises suddenly. That’s what she likes so much about him. He _gets_ her. He understands her, he doesn’t just make appropriates noises of understanding; he really, really gets her to his core because in the end they’re broken into just as many pieces as the other.

She wraps her hand in the collar of his shirt and leans forwards, still half-sitting in his lap as she presses her lips to his in a hungry, deep kiss. He moans slightly, arm sliding back so he can hold her waist, long fingers tracing patterns through the thin fabric of her dress. Lydia tilts her head, pausing for a breath or two then presses back in. The sand shifts under them, and she finds herself half-sprawled on Stiles as he drops backwards into the sand.

For a moment they freeze, and then Stiles lets out a huff of laughter. Lydia grins widely, kissing along the wide curl of his smile. His cold fingers trace down to the hem of her dress, then up along her thigh and Lydia shivers in anticipation.

“Ah, young love,” a familiar voice drawls out. Stiles sits bolt upright straight away, and Lydia slides into his lap, meeting his wide eyes.

Her heart is thumping from the surprise, and she turns, peering over her shoulder to take in the shadow standing behind them.

Stiles wraps a hand around her wrist, helping her up as he stands. “Peter,” he says simply, and his voice doesn’t sound friendly. Lydia clings to him, sneaking a glance at the form of the man behind her. He's not a teenage boy today. He's in his mid-thirties with a funny little goatee that just sort of suits him.

"Stiles, Lydia... how nice to see you here."

"What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are. Enjoying Halloween under a full moon," he grins, flashing white teeth and the fangs are probably Lydia's mind playing tricks on her, but she's never considered a grin really wolfish until she's seen Peter Hale smirking in the moonlight.

“You have rubbish timing,” Stiles says.

Peter quirks an eyebrow, “You wanted tonight to be private? On Halloween on all nights, oh, Stiles…” he laughs, “Did you know Halloween is a day dedicated to remember the dead, the dearly departed of all believers?” He huffs out another laugh, eyes sparking a brilliant blue under the moon shining down on the beach.

In the distance waves crash down but Lydia can barely hear them.

“One idea was to use humour and ridicule to confront death. To make it seem less scary, less intimidating. But some scholars think the root of the celebration is from the Celtic Samhain. The spirits could come more easily into our world, and people would give offerings to them. Feasts were had as the souls of the dead walked among the living. To protect themselves, people wore masks and disguises. How quaint. We’ve turned a festival of feasts and blood and death into cute costumes and _treats_ ,” Peter sneers the word.

“Fascinating,” Stiles says, “Thanks for the history lesson, but we should really be going.”

“But Stiles,” Peter says, “We’ve barely gotten started…”

"Hey, Uncle,"

Peter stiffens, and his expression slips from smugness quickly into resigned impatience.

" _Uncle_?" Lydia asks, turning to Stiles and staring at the strangers. There are two: a man and woman in their early twenties. Both have dark hair and eyebrows that could probably murder you with a glare. The man looks like he's trying to do that to Peter, but the woman's gaze is softer and more open.

"Laura, Derek," Peter greets them, glancing first at the woman, then at the man, "I thought you'd... vanished into the woodwork, so to speak."

Stiles snorts, but Lydia doesn't get the joke. "Shut up, Stiles," Derek snaps, without even looking at the teenager.

"I thought their family... I thought they _died_ ," Lydia hisses at Stiles. He shrugs one shoulder. Maybe not all of them, Lydia guesses. More must have survived than Allison thought, or she might have exaggerated the story.

"We wanted to talk, _uncle_. Away from home."

There is something about the way Laura says 'uncle'. The way it almost doesn't matter. As if the family connection is a joke, something not to be taken seriously.

"Come on," Stiles tries to tug her away, "We should go..."

"Running isn't going to help, Stilinski," Laura tells him. Lydia resists Stiles' attempts to get away, anchoring herself in the sand. She crosses her arms, wanting to hear what Derek and Laura have to say.

Stiles shakes his head, lips pressed together. His face is pale, “Guys, can’t you do this some other time?” he asks, “You’ve got all year… do you have to choose today?”

“It’s easier,” Laura shrugs, gaze flittering over first Stiles, then Lydia, “At least now we don’t have to worry about… anyone else interfering.”

“What is this about?” Lydia turns to Stiles, confused, “Stiles?”

“Yeah, Uncle,” Derek takes a threatening, stiff-legged step forwards. It looks almost like he’s circling his uncle, “Why don’t you tell Lydia what you did?”

“No,” it’s almost a moan that comes out of Stiles’ mouth. He grabs at her upper arm, tugging her back, “Lydia, please, you don’t want to hear this…”

“No, let her stay,” Laura snaps, and there’s a sudden anger in her tone now, “Don’t you think she should know what she’s getting herself into? Don’t you think she deserves the truth?”

“What truth?” Lydia rounds on Stiles, as he drops his hand, only to reach up. His fingers run through the long strands of his hand, fisting in them and tugging as if he might be able to make Laura and Derek shut up. “Stiles, what are they talking about?”

“You’re not crazy, Lydia,” Peter shrugs, his blue gaze meeting hers and she’s scared suddenly. Terrified. “Reality is just… more fluid than you first assumed.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

Stiles stumbles back another few steps, glancing up to the moon high in the sky, “I don’t want to hear this,” he snaps out, angrily, “You two have no right…”

Derek scoffs, angling his body so he’s half-turned to his uncle and half-turned to Stiles, “We have as much right as anybody else.” He turns to look at Lydia, and for a moment he looks pale. Derek isn’t a small person - he’s large and muscular with a thick jaw and did Lydia mention the muscles? - but suddenly he looks ill. Ill and losing weight, his skin sallow and eyes sunken like a corpse…

Then Lydia blinks and it’s gone.

“You see?” Peter says, still staring at her, “Reality bends. And you can see it if you look hard enough for it.”

“Lydia, come on,” Stiles begs again.

“But--“

“Oh, we’ll be okay,” Laura says, and her tone can’t be described as anything but cruel, “Won’t we Uncle Peter? We’ve just got some family time to catch up on. And believe me, we’ve been looking forward to this…”

The spark of terror inside her flares and Lydia finds herself stumbling backwards towards Stiles. Self-preservation outweighs her other options and she grabs his hand, letting Stiles drag her out of there.

“What-- what are they doing?” she asks, weakly, not expecting an answer.

It’s not like it makes much sense, anyway.

“It’s Halloween,” Stiles says, “Like Peter said… the wall between the worlds are thinner and… well… they say that you can hurt the dead, if you’re lucky.”

 

Lydia dreams.

She dreams of Peter Hale at sixteen, twenty-six, thirty-six and his skin melting off his face as he burns. She dreams of a woman with blonde hair and a clawed out throat laughing and laughing and--

She dreams of Stiles, his cool hands encircling hers as he leads her down into the basement, “It’s okay,” he whispers, “They’re dead. We’re all dead here.”

She dreams of Allison and Scott pressed against each other and frantically kissing in a dark corner of the house. She dreams of people screaming in the basement.

She dreams of Derek and Laura, and she dreams of a shadow with red eyes standing over their bodies, howling in madness.

She dreams of swords and locked doors and chains and Peter above her, his hands pressing down on her throat until she can’t breath and she blinks up and it’s not Peter, it’s Stiles, and he’s whispering, tears running down his cheeks as he tells her “It’s okay, it will be okay, you’ll be okay soon and then it won’t hurt and we can be together…”

Lydia wakes, screaming.

“Lydia!” her door slams open as her mother appears, panic button already pressed in hand as she looks around wildly, “What is it? Who…”

“Nothing, nothing…” Lydia stops to try and suck in some much needed oxygen, “Nobody,” she says, “It was… it was just a dream…”

She can still feel phantom impressions of fingers around her throat.

“It was just a dream,” she whispers again, weakly. Her eyes catch her reflection in her mirror, and she examines the red marks around her throat, “Just a dream,” she repeats, as if that might make it real.

That’s what they say when the Sheriff arrives, sirens loudly announcing his arrival. He looks flustered and half asleep, but he’s there, on guard and ready to help.

“I’m so sorry, I should have checked…” Natalie says, wrapped in her dressing gown while Lydia clutches a blanket to her shoulders, shivering in the cold night air.

"It's okay," the Sheriff smiles sadly, but in complete understanding as he finishes checking the house, just to be safe, "My son used to have sleep paralysis. He used to wake screaming because he couldn't wake up otherwise. He kept lucid dreaming so vividly until the point where he couldn’t tell he was awake. He thought he was still asleep."

"I teach part-time, but I also do some counselling sessions if your son wants to come along," Natalie offers, "You're welcome to drop him and stay, have some coffee..."

"Oh," the Sheriff blinks in alarm at her mother's blatant flirting, "It's okay; you already see Stiles, don't you? Melissa told me..." he trails off, blinking furiously suddenly.

"Stiles?" Natalie says, "You named your kid Stiles Stilinski?" It takes another few seconds for anything else to hit.

" _Stiles_ is your son?" Lydia frowns in surprise at the man. Now she looks for it... yes, she can see Stiles in the Sheriff.

It makes sense except... except Lydia could have sworn the Sheriff had told her once that his son had died.

 

The Sheriff hates this house.

It's full of memories and... well... ghosts.

He's not even sure if he believes in ghosts.

Melissa does. Melissa regularly complains to him about it and keeps him updated about her son and his son and--

His son is _dead_.

Isn't he?

He sees a flicker of movement, a dark blue t-shirt and amber eyes and he tries not to look. Stiles lounges in the shadows, his eyes asking the unvoiced question that the Sheriff doesn't know the answer to.

Stilinski isn't even sure of the facts anymore. He doesn't know what to believe, so he usually tries to avoid this house.

He's not succeeding.

"I'm so sorry I called you out here for nothing," Natalie says for what might be the fifth time, smiling sheepishly at the Sheriff. Lydia rolls her eyes and Stilinski assumes it's because her mother is a second away from outright flirting. He doesn't mind. He's actually rather flattered.

"It's no problem," the Sheriff says, with a soft smile, "Better safe than sorry, and with the history this house has we can overlook a few overreactions."

"You have no idea how it much safer it makes Lydia and I feel."

"Yeah," the Sheriff says, glancing up to where his son has perched on the top step of the stairs, legs splayed, elbows on knees and fingers locked together. His foot taps slowly on the step and he watches, silently. His gaze is dark and shadowed, and his skin is pale and ill-looking. "I can imagine."

"You okay?" Natalie frowns, "You look white as a sheet. Can I get you a drink or--"

"No... no..." the Sheriff shakes his head, closing his eyes fir a long seconds. Natalie cranes her head to see what he was looking at, but there's nothing there.

And when the Sheriff looks up, his son is gone.

Just a ghost.

Ghosts should stay where they are buried, he thinks. Six feet underground and dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love and motivation!


	4. collision course

“So you and Stiles, huh?” Allison teases her. They’re meant to be doing homework. Key phrase: meant to be. “I don’t know what you see in him. He’s kind of weird.”

“He is,” Lydia shrugs, “But I like him.” She can’t even begin to explain why to Allison, “We went out for Halloween. Had a picnic on the beach… it was… nice.”

“Nice,” Allison stares, then obviously decides to go for the direct approach, “Did you have sex?”

“What? No,” Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder in annoyance, “We were going to,” she admits, and Allison squeals like the little girl she is at heart, “But then Peter showed up with some of his family so we left.”

“Peter?” Lydia doesn’t get why Allison is so wary suddenly.

“Yeah. And his… niece and nephew? Laura and Derek?”

“Ah,” Allison blinks in suddenly understanding, “Yeah, that makes sense… that explains why he looked a bit worse for wear.”

Lydia frowns, “How come everybody seems to know each other here?” she frowns.

“Beacon Hills is a small town,” Allison shrugs, “I might not go to the school here but I… I know some people. Peter Hale happens to be one of them.”

“You lied,” Lydia remembers suddenly, “You said his family all died.”

Allison’s lip curls but she doesn’t answer.

“Hey, you free this weekend?” Lydia asks, glancing up at the other girl. Allison shrugs, and so Lydia continues with her plan, “I was thinking we could go out and see a movie or something,” she suggests, lightly, even though her words weigh heavily on her tongue. They shouldn’t. Lydia Martin does not get socially anxious about things but this friendship with Allison…

It’s one of the most genuine friendships she’s ever had.

“Nah,” Allison hums, and Lydia’s stomach twists. Except Allison’s eyes are sparkling and she’s smiling, “I like your house,” she says, “Can’t we just hang out here?”

“It seems like everyone likes this house except me,” Lydia rolls her eyes, because that wasn’t a rejection, if anything it was an acceptance just…

They’re still hanging out. But they still haven’t made it further than the front doorstep.

Allison’s smile is thin and it’s like she knows something Lydia doesn’t.

It’s beginning to get annoying, and Lydia really wants to find out what everybody is hiding.

 

The answer comes in the form of Peter Hale.

Maybe Stiles was right, Lydia thinks, when she comes downstairs before school one day to find Peter Hale sitting at the kitchen island smirking at her.

She almost walks out the room again, just on principle.

“Good morning, Lydia,” Peter purrs.

“How did you get in?” she asks, suspiciously.

Peter raises one innocent eyebrow. There is a bruise mottling his cheek and his hands are in bandages. Lydia tries not to notice, ignoring the way his skin is marred in places almost as if burnt, “Why so untrusting?” Peter spreads out his hands placating her, “I’m here to see your mother.”

Lydia straightens her back, flicking her hair behind her ear and deciding it’s probably best to just ignore him.

“How’s Stiles?” Peter doesn’t really seem to get the message.

“What do you mean?” she asks, glancing reluctantly over her shoulder towards him, “He’s fine.”

“Killed anyone else, lately?”

She pauses, mid-way through filling herself up a water bottle for school, “What?” she asks, words failing her for a moment, “What do you mean… ‘ _killed_ anyone _else_ ’?”

“You didn’t know,” Peter sounds almost gleeful as he gazes at her, “Why, Lydia, I thought he would have told you by now…”

“Told me what?” Lydia asks; voice too sharp, tone too worried.

“You should check out the high school. Stiles used to go to school there.”

“What do you mean ‘used to’?” she asks, but that’s the moment her mother arrives back in the kitchen with a smile, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. Lydia turns away, trying not to look at the mess of a man that is Peter Hale, scared that if she steps too close she’s going to fall in the cracks.

Maybe she already has.

 

There’s a plaque in the library.

Lydia stares at it, taking it all in. It’s simple. Bronzed with only a few sentences carved onto it. Ad Memorum. In memory.

“Shame that,” the librarian clicks her tongue at the plaque, “They were so young as well.”

Lydia scans the plaque, but if Peter meant for this to make sense: it doesn’t. “Do you have a list?” she asks, turning to the bustling woman, “Of who died?” Maybe Stiles lost a relative or something.

The woman inclines her head towards another metal sheet, and Lydia heads over to it, reading out the names. She doesn’t recognise any of them. “Do you… do you know of a Stiles?” she asks instead, looking at the librarian, “He’s the Sheriff’s kid, he…” she stops. The woman is staring at her with wide eyes and a horrified expression.

“Sweetie,” the librarian says, gently, “If you’re looking into the murders at the school… I thought you would have known.”

“Known what?” Lydia asks, a feeling a dread welling up inside her.

The librarian looks reluctant to say anything shaking her head furiously, “I shouldn’t speak of these things. It’s bad. It was very, very bad… bad for the town, bad for the Sheriff…” she shakes her head, “Excuse me, I have to…”

Lydia watches the woman walk away, and she thinks somehow she’s almost more confused. Finding a free computer, she logs on and brings up a search engine. It’s easy to type the words in. ‘Beacon Hills High School Murders’.

It’s the first thing that comes up. There’s a memorial page that she scrolls through, then back spaces until she can scroll down the search page. She chooses a news article this time, reading through it.

The words don’t sink in at first. She has to read it twice more.

Swimming in front of her eyes are the words _‘Sheriff’s son’_ and _‘M. ‘Stiles’ Stilinski’_ and she feels her vision blackening. She thinks she’s forgetting how to breathe.

A warm hand over hers where it rests on the mouse makes her jump. She stifles a scream as she sees Scott there, staring sadly at her, “You found out,” he whispers, “I told him you would.”

“He…” she chokes a little bit, glancing at the picture on screen, “Stiles…?”

“Yes,” Scott answers her unspoken question.

Lydia looks back at the news article, describing how a student had killed several fellow classmates violently. It’s not the dead students Lydia feels sorry for, it’s the boy she knows who did it. “Stiles,” she says, voice like steel, “Stiles killed people. Is that why the Sheriff talks about him like he’s dead? Is that why he’s seeing my mother?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Scott says, “Stiles… wasn’t well.”

“Did he have what his mother had?”

“It…” Scott takes a deep breath, “Maybe if he had it would have been easier. He thought he did. Maybe he thought it wasn’t real. But he… I think he knew. He wasn’t… he wasn’t a bad person. He was a good friend.”

Lydia notes vaguely how Scott’s talking about him in past tense.

“You’re looking up about Stilinski?”

She turns at Jackson’s sneer. Scott flinches from the tone, but Lydia looks up, meeting his gaze, “Yes,” she says, “What of it?”

“Guy was crazier than his mother,” Jackson scoffs, and Lydia’s hand tightens into a fist. She wants to punch him. “He murdered a bunch of kids, including a girl of one of a well-respected arms dealer. He just lost it one day… I mean, I always knew you two were freaks,” he gestures to Scott, “I never realised how much before.”

“He’s not crazy,” Lydia defends him, because if Stiles is crazy then what does that make her? “Maybe he was bullied or something,” glancing at Scott she thinks that’s likely, “Maybe he had a reason.”

“Bullied?” Jackson stares at her like she’s insane. It’s not the first time someone has stared at her like that, “His dad was the Sheriff!” Jackson emphasises, “Nobody touched the kid, he just lost it. Damn near ruined his father’s career. Just as well he got shot up in the old Argent house… hang on, don’t you live there…?”

Lydia stopped listening a while ago. Everyone’s still talking in past tense.

Like Stiles isn’t there. Like he’s gone.

Like he’s dead.

“Lydia? Lydia!” Scott says as she shoves him away. “Lydia, wait…!” but she doesn’t, she shoulders past Jackson and his cronies, grabbing her bag and bolting.

She wants to get as far away from them all as possible. She wants…

She wants to go to Stiles. Except she doesn’t know where to go, or what to do and…

Lydia runs. She doesn’t really care where to. She just wants to get out of there.

 

Lydia doesn’t know where she is when with a wail, a police cruiser slides up next to her and parks. She stops walking, staring numbly at the car. The window rolls down and she finally recognises the Sheriff as he sticks his head out.

“Need a ride?” he asks, softly. She doesn’t know what to do… does the Sheriff know… “Scott told me,” he adds, but that doesn’t help. Scott told him what? That Lydia knows his son if a murderer? That his son is supposed to be dead but obvious isn’t?

Except… maybe he is.

She shakes that thought out of her head and with a watery smile, heads around to the passenger door, climbing in, “Thanks,” she says, softly.

“You okay?” the Sheriff asks as he starts the engine.

“Just… shocked, I guess,” she says, “I just needed some time to think things through.”

The man nods in understanding, “I felt that a lot. First after Claudia died, then after Stiles…” he stops, abruptly, as if he’s not sure what to say. “I used to drink but it… it wasn’t healthy. Melissa usually keeps me on track nowadays and Scott… Scott’s a great kid. It’s a shame what happened.”

They’re still skirting the issue. Still talking around it and Lydia _hates_ that. So she says what is on her mind with no regrets. “I’m sorry about Stiles,” she whispers.

The car brakes to a halt. The Sheriff is staring at her with a shocked expression. “You know.” It’s not a question. She gives a small nod. “Nobody’s ever said that before,” he blinks; seeming almost touched, “It was mostly talks with the doctors, with the FBI…” he shakes his head.

“I like him,” Lydia admits, her voice shaky, “Stiles, I mean. He… I don’t think he’s a bad person… but… I don’t know why he’d do those things.”

“Stay away from him,” the Sheriff warns her, “He’s dangerous.” He sounds scared, and maybe, Lydia thinks, maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t visit the house that often. Lydia doesn’t think Stiles would hurt her, but she accepts the warning gratuitously. She’s waiting for the engine to start up again, and is surprised when it doesn’t.

The Sheriff still looks like he wants to speak.

“Scott found him,” Stilinski says, slowly, “Stiles was there with a bloody knife and in that sort of shell-shocked state you find yourself in when you don’t know what you’re doing anymore. He… he was in that state a lot, towards the end. Allison was dead and Stiles was half-mad and… the police were coming but we hadn’t gotten there yet.”

“What are you saying?” Lydia asks, slowly.

“Scott did what he had to,” the Sheriff says, and Lydia knows what those six words mean. She knows what they mean but when applying them to Scott… “The official report was that he was shot resisting arrest, but… I thought you’d probably prefer to know the truth. It wasn’t Scott’s fault.”

“Scott killed him.”

“Stiles had half killed himself already. Scott just finished it. But I… I don’t like being there. I don’t like being around the ghost of my son. He scares me. I don’t know if he’ll be my son or if he’ll be something else. Something darker. The thing he was turning into when he died. That’s why… why you should be careful. He might not mean to, but people around him get hurt.”

Lydia doesn’t know what to say anymore. She just leans back in her seat, and after a minute or so of silence, the Sheriff starts up the engine again.

 

“I can’t even taste it,” Stiles grumbles, munching on a curly fry with annoyance.

“Just shut up and eat it, Stilinski,” Cora mumbles, banging a few pots around and taking clear advantage of the fact that nobody is home. It’s nice, Stiles thinks. It’s almost like he’s alive and living here again. Not that he ever lived here. He did die here. They all did though. In front of him Cora pulls out some mugs and is boiling the kettle, shouting at her siblings whether they want a hot drink.

Stiles hasn’t seen Peter since the full moon, “How’s your uncle?” he drawls. “He hasn’t stalked me in at least a week. Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Cora scoffs, “Try right. Laura and Derek showed him some Hale retribution,” her grin is just that little bit feral. It’s almost like Peter’s her father, and not her uncle. “Not that we can kill him,” she bemoans, “Which we would. Except… y’know. It’s not like it sticks.”

“It’s therapeutic,” Stiles shrugs, as Cora shoves a hot mug into his hands.

“Whatever,” Cora drawls, “You still shacking up with that living chick?”

“Her name is Lydia, and she is a goddess,” Stiles says, because it’s true. He’s never met anyone like Lydia before.

Cora looks bored already, “I’m going to find Isaac,” she says, “Have you seen him?”

“I think he’s down in the basement,” Stiles shrugs one shoulder, as Cora vanishes in that direction. For a kid who died trapped in a freezer, Isaac spends an awful lot of time in claustrophobic spaces.

Needless to say the Lahey’s didn’t live here very long.

Not many people have lived here. Sometimes its people who wander in, or visit and they never really leave. The Hales were the first, and that was a good fifteen years or so ago. Fifteen years since the fire that had started it all. Then the Lahey’s moved in and that didn’t last longer than a year. There had been others since, the most recent of which…

“Huh,” Stiles isn’t the least bit bothered when he looks up to see Allison leaning on the kitchen island in front of him, “Here I thought you and Scott were busy being exploring the boundaries of necrophilia."

"You're still not funny," Allison sneers, but she has no real fight in her. Her words are her weapons but physically neither Stiles nor Allison do anything. They can’t.

"I'm always funny," Stiles snaps back, "Cora made coffee. Want some?” he sips his own, and it’s like he’s sipping air. There is nothing there. It’s not even like on Caspar where the liquid passes through him. It just vanishes, loses its taste and consistency, and he doesn’t even get to enjoy it.

"I would, but unfortunately I’m kind of dead,” Allison says, slowly, watching his pretence of being human.

"Sorry about that," Stiles mocks, tone turning into a cruel sneer, "I don't know what you expect me to do about it."

" _Now_?" Allison scoffs, "Nothing. But next time try not killing me in the first place." With a sigh she picks a seat at the kitchen island, slumping down with her elbows on the table and head in her hands, "Death sucks," she says.

Stiles laughs, "You're telling me?" he slips into a seat opposite her. "You know..." he says after a moment, "You should kill Scott."

Allison barely reacts, "Why?" she asks lifelessly.

Stiles shrugs, as if he's bored. "Complete the circle. I killed you. Scott killed me. It's only appropriate. Besides... he's aging; don't tell me you haven't noticed?" She doesn't say anything, "He's getting older. He's seventeen; he'll be eighteen in six months. That's already older than me." Another pause, "You two can't be star-crossed lovers if one of you is dead."

The girl rolls her head, so that Stiles' is in her line of sight, "We're all dead," she drawls.

"I don't feel that dead," Stiles answers, and Allison frowns, looking as if she's almost considering it, "No," Stiles says before she can speak, "You can't tell Scott. You think he would approve?"

"Of course not," Allison rolls her eyes, tone slow and considering, "But who says we would have to tell him?"

 

Scott’s honestly not surprised when the door rings and seconds later his mother calls him down because it’s his friend.

Lydia looks so small standing in his hallway. Small and scared and Scott just wants to sweep her up in a hug. He doesn’t think she’d appreciate that though, so he just leads the way quietly to his bedroom, “Sorry, it’s not the cleanest,” he says, kicking a pair of underwear behind the door, “I don’t usually have a lot of visitors…”

“Because you and Allison usually hang out in my house,” Lydia says, sounding like she’s slowly, reluctantly beginning to accept this.

It’s a lot to accept. Not just the thing with Stiles, but the whole thing with the dead people as well…

“You’re not dead,” Lydia eyes him up and down, “but Allison and Stiles… they’re dead, aren’t they?”

All Scott can do is nod.

“It makes so much sense,” Lydia breathes, shoulders slumping, “That’s why your mom tried warning us off. Why…” she stops, “Peter,” she realises, “He’s dead too, isn’t he? Allison’s right. He really did die.”

Scott nods again. “Stiles’ dad likes to pretend it isn’t real. It’s bad enough with what happened, let alone the aftermath. But Peter Hale used to live here. He got burned up in the fire. He murdered Laura, his niece, and Kate Argent. Derek killed him in the end, but he and his sister were found poisoned. It… it was assumed they killed each other but… Kate’s father: Gerard… he was in town when they died.”

Lydia swears. She had obviously known her house had a long and bloody history but she… she never realised how bloody.

“There are others. Each with their own story. They… they really need to tell you it themselves…”

“You mean I need to talk to Stiles.”

“And Allison,” Scott argues, “You’re a really good friend, and it’s been so lonely for her. I can’t be over there all the time, and she and Stiles only get on so much. She argues with Cora, she and Isaac just sort of alternate between mocking everyone and pretending the other doesn’t exist… you’ve been really good for her.”

“Good for her,” Lydia repeats numbly. She still looks like she’s in shock and Scott doesn’t know what to do. It’s not like he can help in anyway, except maybe give her advice about living-dead relationships.

He can’t even tell her it will all be okay because… how can it?

Two-thirds of her friends are dead, after all.

 

“Hey. Scott told me you know.”

Lydia finds Allison in her mother’s upstairs office. The girl is reading something on the sofa. For one minute she hadn’t been there, the next Lydia had blinked and she was.

“That shouldn’t even work,” Lydia says, staring. She doesn’t sit down, just stands there, “It’s not physically possible.”

Allison closes her book, leaning forwards until her elbows are propped up on her knees, “There are things in this world that can't be explained by the rational mind.”

“You’re saying ghosts are real?” Lydia whispers.

“Of course,” Allison smiles, “You’re looking right at one.” And for a moment... just a moment; Allison looks as brittle as frozen glass.

“Stiles killed you,” Lydia states, bluntly. “And now you… you haunt this place?”

“The spirits who die here can’t ever leave,” Allison explains.

"How did you die?" Lydia asks. That's probably the number one thing you don't ask a ghost, but she's hardly sure this is real. Maybe she's going crazy again.

But Allison doesn't look angry. And when she grabs a hold of Lydia's hand she feels warm and very, very alive. Slowly, so as not to startle Lydia, she reaches for her top, peeling it up until Lydia can see her side. The skin of her friend's stomach is smooth and perfect, except for the place where there is a large bloody hole. "Stiles stabbed me," Allison drops her top, "I guess I could make up some sort of excuse for him and say he wasn't in his right mind and he didn't know it was me, but that would be a lie. He... he's not right. Not safe... you have to get out of here, Lydia."

"But..." the words stick in her throat: 'but he loves me' 'but he'd never hurt me'. She doesn't know if that's even true. "It's Stiles," she says, almost pathetically.

"Yeah," Allison whispers back, voice just as sad, "I know how you feel."

“You used to live here?”

“I had your room,” Allison replies, “I don’t know what my dad was thinking, moving into the house where Kate died. Especially after my mom committed suicide. She was my aunt, y’know? Kate. That’s how I knew those stories. Still, I bet the asking price was low. It was practically a bargain and we already knew the history. We thought we knew what we were getting ourselves in for.”

“And did you?”

Allison laughs, weakly, “In the end it wasn’t the house that got me, was it?”

“I still don’t… Stiles wouldn’t do something like that!” Lydia shakes her head.

“He did. He killed me. Then he tried to kill himself but he kind of botched it. Scott found us. My cold dead body bleeding out on the floor. Stiles muttering and whispering about how he’s _sorry, I didn’t mean to you have to believe me, Scott_ ,” Allison’s voice grows mocking to mimic Stiles’ voice. There’s a cruel edge to her tone, a bitter resentment that can only fade so much, “When Scott realised what had happened he picked up the knife and finished Stiles off.”

Lydia shakes her head, “It wasn’t like that,” she whispers, “Stiles…”

“You still don’t see it, do you?” Allison breathes, “Lydia, Stiles isn’t a person: he’s a monster. He’s half-way to being a psychopath except he can’t even cope with that so his mind’s fragmenting, making up different worlds and realities where he can do these things and get away with it. Except he forgot which was real and which wasn’t and ended up with blood on his hands, just like he’s always had.”

“Don’t…”

“You’re clever. You know the definition. Here, look.” Allison shoves the book she had been reading in Lydia’s face, “He’s charismatic, and compelling. He’s also a total liar.”

“Scott told me what happened,” Lydia interrupts, before Allison can say anything else, “Stiles wasn’t the only monster.”

“What…” Allison blinks, leaning back and side-lined for a moment.

“Your grandfather killed people. So did your aunt. Your mother tried to and when it went wrong she committed suicide. Your father taught you how to hunt. To shoot a bow and gun and how to use a knife. How did Stiles even kill you if you were so well trained?”

Allison doesn’t answer. She doesn’t look angry. Just sad. So, so sad.

“He won, but he was hurt," Lydia continues, "I don’t think he cared but he… he asked Scott to kill him. So he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. And he did. Scott did. He didn’t do it for vengeance. He did it for his best friend.”

Lydia glares at Allison, at the girl who is her best friend. And Allison’s smile is still mournful, “You’re right,” the girl says, “My family were all killers. I probably could have been one too. Stiles is a killer. Peter’s a sociopath. Kate’s insane. You know something is wrong when Derek Hale ends up being the most well-adjusted out of all of you,” Allison rolls her eyes, “So welcome to the madhouse, Lydia, because here we’re all crazy.”

There is years of resentment there, Lydia sees. Allison is young. Allison is seventeen and she died way before she was meant to. Allison is seventeen and she’ll be seventeen forever and it’s nothing like the books. Immortality is not a blessing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Allison pulls back, leaning back against the couch.

“Like what?”

“With pity. You don’t… don't pity the dead, Lydia. Pity the living."

"Like Scott?" she asks.

Allison's smile is miserable. “Like you.”


	5. empty spaces

They’re ghosts.

They’re ghosts.

They’re all goddamn ghosts.

Lydia stares at her reflection. It’s pale and she’s almost like a ghost herself. What’s the difference, she wonders? At what point has she crossed the line?

Her head spins, and in her ears she can hear the Sheriff and Scott and Allison all talking, blurring together. None of it makes sense to her anymore.

The people she keeps seeing in this house are dead.

The people…

The _ghosts_ she keeps seeing…

Ghosts…

Lydia lets out a weak choking laugh. She’s crying. She doesn’t even remember starting. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to feel this much.

She’s crazy, she thinks. She’s well and truly lost it this time. There are no longer just voices in her head; there are real and physical manifestations of her craziness walking around. She’s no longer sleepwalking across town; she’s spending her whole life in a walking, living nightmare.

In the mirror she sees the reflection of Lydia Martin. Elegantly curled strawberry blonde hair and soft, subtle make-up. She’s beautiful. She’s a queen. She’s a genius who is going to win the Field’s Medal.

It’s not her. Staring at wide-green eyes, she knows the image on the outside isn’t the person on the inside. She’s still a genius. She’s smart, so she should know the answer to this problem, staring her in the face.

She doesn’t. She never did.

Green eyes she doesn’t recognise stare back at her, and Lydia lashes out. The new mirror shatters just as easily as the old one. The new Lydia breaks just as easily as the old Lydia fell apart. Her fragmented reflection stares back at her and she hits out again, the glass crackling beneath her fists. It crashes into the sink, until there is no reflective surface. All Lydia can see is the wooden backing; streaks of blood running down it.

She’s so tired, she thinks. So, _so_ tired. She curls up against the bath, tears still running down her face. She can’t stop them. She doesn’t even try.

She’s losing.

 

“You’re looking a little worse for wear,” Stiles practically crows at Peter. The man’s form is back to the burnt mess it was before, but with new scars. Angry red lines criss-cross his back and scratches that look almost like nail marks run down his arms.

They’re healing. But slowly.

The man glares at him. Stiles only quails a little bit.

Peter used to scare him.

Hell, Peter used to _terrify_ him. Stiles blames most of his slipping sanity on the man, with his whispering manipulations and personality that changes with his appearance.

Only most though. The rest was all him.

But the man who liked to drag him through Allison’s house like Stiles was a piece of property to do with as he would sure did help the slipper slope. Not even Derek’s poor attempts at being helpful worked in the end, and he was just there to watch the landslide.

“Laura and Derek must have had fun,” Stiles continues to taunt the man, who is currently wrapping trailing bandages around his wrist.

“I’m sure they did,” Peter practically spits it out, “I don’t know why you’re so happy. Where’s your little girl toy?” His gaze flickers up to the ceiling of the basement, towards the house above them.

Not for the first time Stiles wonders what it is that keeps them here. He wonders if it’s the ash of the old house, or the murders of the family. He wonders if it’s just the location; a lucky coincidence.

Peter’s a sociopath. He barely cares about his family, but he must have cared for something because he cared enough to rip out Kate Argent’s throat. Peter’s a sociopath and Stiles is a psychopath. Apparently. He doesn’t feel like it. Psychopaths aren’t meant to care about people, are they?

“You’re obsessed,” Peter sneers, staring at him, “Stop thinking about that goddamn girl!”

“What’s the matter?” Stiles shrugs, “Jealous?”

Peter’s lip does that funny little thing where he looks like he’s about to growl and then stops, settling into an annoyingly smug look, “Why should I be?” he asks, “You’re still mine.”

“Your possessiveness is creepy,” Stiles tells him, plainly.

Peter doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re mine,” he says, “And she’s yours. So she’s mine too, got it?”

“That’s not how it works,” Stiles snaps, “She’s not anybody’s. She’s a person. She’s not cursed.”

“Not yet,” Peter grins, and something in Stiles chills.

“What did you do?” he asks, stalking around so he can see the other man’s face, “Peter… what did you _do_?”

“What do you think I did?” Peter laughs, “I told your precious girl the truth! She knows what a monster you are. She knows how fucked up this house is. I doubt she’s even going to be here that much longer…”

“No…” Stiles bolts. He leaves Peter laughing in the dark, racing upstairs to the light. To his light.

 

“Hey. Hey, Lydia.”

She flinches away from the voice. Blinking blearily something stings her arms and she yelps, tugging her hand back.

“Woah, Lydia, don’t…”

“Here, I found some antiseptic…”

Lydia tries to push herself up, but slides back down. She’s still in the backroom, and there’s a tap running somewhere. Stiles leans over her, brown eyes full of worry. Allison hovers in the background with a first aid kit that she drops on the floor next to them.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Allison says, brown eyes meeting Lydia’s for a moment before she’s gone, back out of the bathroom.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Stiles jokes, softly, and oh - Lydia knows why it hurts now. He’s pulling broken pieces of the mirror out of her arm. “What were you trying to do?” Stiles says, voice hitching slightly in a sob, “God, Lydia, I found you and there was so much blood…” he presses his lips together, shaking his head. His shoulders are shaking. He’s crying, Lydia realises, his eyes full of tears.

That’s not possible, she thinks, how can he cry over her but not over Allison or those other kids?

“Were you trying to…” Stiles stops, afraid to ask. He won’t look at her, bandaging her hands and reaching for Allison where left the first aid kit, “Look, you’ve made a mess; you’ll have to wear gloves…”

“Stiles,” she says. He won’t look at her. “Stiles?”

“This might sting.”

It does. He still looks down at her hands, “Stiles, look at me.”

“It shouldn’t get infected now… I’ll just wrap this and then…”

“Stiles. Look at me.” It’s an instruction. It’s clear and precise and he looks up, brown eyes so incredibly soft.

They’re more like amber, Lydia thinks. Soft brown shards of amber.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” she says, and as she says it she knows it’s true.

“I believe you,” he says, voice dull, “I… have you any idea what that would do to me, Lydia?”

“Not much,” she says, trying a weak smile. It falls miserably short, but makes her feel better, “You’re already kind of dead.”

He manages a weak smile back, “Hi, I’m Stiles, I’m dead, want to hook up?” he looks back down to the bandages, wrapping her hands with the same care he had before, “I can’t lose you,” he whispers, “You… you're the only light I've ever known. You've changed me, Lydia.”

Lydia doesn’t know what to say. Her hands hurt and she hasn’t looked at them. Her wrists are sliced open, she feels like she cut herself on a cheese-grater, not a mirror. She’s tired. Tired and she feels weak. Like she’s not real, and the faintest wind will blow her away. “What about Kate?” she whispers, “And Peter…”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Stiles promises, “Just like Allison doesn’t let them hurt Scott. You’re mine.”

There’s a possessive tone in there, but then it’s gone. She studies his face, creased in concentration as he finishes tying up the bandage.

“There,” he says triumphantly, “All done,” he grins at her, “Want to go grab a bite to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” she admits, “Can we just… can we stay here, for a while?”

Stiles meets her gaze with wide brown eyes and he’s like a hopeful puppy.

Except - _oh_ , that’s _not_ right. He’s not a dog. He’s not blindly loyal; he doesn’t have that same bite. He’s too sharp. Too bright eyed and quick to be a dog.

He’s more like a fox, she thinks.

Her quick brown fox.

She presses against him, Stiles leaning against the bath and her leaning on him, head on his chest and listening to the rise and fall of his heart beat in his chest, “The world is a filthy place,” Stiles whispers, holding her close. She leans into him, his hands running over her hair again and again in a soothing motion; “It's a filthy goddamn horror show."

She loves him, she thinks, and that terrifies her because she has never loved anyone before. Not the way she loves Stiles.

She loves him and he loves her but it’s not enough, she thinks.

It’s not going to be enough.

But for now they hold each other close, listening to their heartbeats echo in the silence.

 

“What did he do?” Scott says, the moment he sees the broken form Allison is cradling to her. She’s so small, it’s easier than it should be to carry it down down down to the basement and the crawl-spaces and Scott takes a step back from her.

He’s scared, she realises, but she’s still kind of numb to the fact.

“What did he _do_?” Scott demands again, and there’s that note of anger she has only heard once. There is that note of anger that the last time she heard it she was _between_ living and death and Stiles was curled up, hands bloody and gaze not there and Scott was rounding on his friend, demanding and screaming and ‘why, what did you do, stiles?’.

She doesn’t remember what the bleeding boy on the floor had said in response.

“He didn’t do anything,” she says, “Peter did.”

It’s all she needs to say. Scott’s expression changes in a flash, understanding dawning as he nods, stepping forwards and helping Allison with her burden.

“We tried,” Allison says, rather pathetically, “But by the time Stiles got there it was too late. There was so much blood…”

Scott looks at her, his brown eyes long and searching before he finally asks her, “What do you want to do?” he asks, “I can leave the house, but if someone found…”

“The basement,” Allison decides, “We go to the basement.”

 

“Your teacher phoned.”

Lydia pushes her cereal around the bowl, watching as the milk soaks in and it gets steadily soggier and soggier and…

“Lydia,” her mom says, and she looks up, meeting her mom’s gaze, “You haven’t been in school at all for the past week. That’s not like you at all.”

 _How do you know?_ Lydia wants to ask. It’s not like her mom has been around that much anyway. All she says though is, “I didn’t feel well.”

“Of course you’re ill,” Natalie stresses, like all parents do, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat a thing in the past few days.”

Lydia shrugs, “I’m not hungry,” she says, and it’s true. She hasn’t felt like food for a while now.

Natalia’s face crumples and she examines her daughter for such a long moment Lydia feels like she’s trying to pass some sort of test she doesn’t even know about. “I’m fine, mom,” she says, inputting just enough teenage annoyance to make her mother back off with a worried sigh.

“Take a rest,” Natalie advises her, “I’m driving up to San Francesco. For the…” she stops, just before the word ‘divorce papers’ slips out of her lips. Lydia doesn’t press; she doesn’t look up and ask about it. It’s still a raw wound, too recent and not yet scabbed over.

She’s in her bed when her mom leaves. If she’s pretending to be sick she might as well keep up the pretence. But when she hears the car drive off, she slides out, feet padding silently on the floor.

She might as well do something pro-active while she’s here.

And there are corners of this house she hasn’t yet explored and inevitably…

There are also ghosts she hasn’t yet met.

 

Lydia avoids the basement.

She doesn’t know why, but her first instinct is to look up instead of down. She pulls down the ladder leading up there and it creaks, releasing a cloud of dust down on her head. She coughs, stepping back and watching as the motes waft through the air, caught in the sunlight.

The wooden ladder creaks beneath her as she climbs up it. Upstairs the attic is dark and filled with shadows and Lydia stands there, peering around and just considering the logistics of going back down to find a torch when something moves.

It springs from the shadows like a dark wraith. Teeth snap and she sees gleaming red eyes and dark fur as she stumbles backwards, away from where it lunges straight for her.

It looks like a dog. Like a giant dog with a long snout and sharp silver teeth and eyes that _glow_ and--

Lydia turns to the ladder, turning to run and walks straight into something hard and solid. She screams, lashing out at the shape there who grabs onto her, restricting her movement. “Hey, it’s okay,” she can’t make out his features in the gloom, but she recognises the tone of her voice as Stiles holds her close to him. He is wearing another one of his worded t-shirts. Lydia rather fancies the stud muffin one, but today it’s a simple back tee with the words ‘Normal People Scare Me’ printed on it in white. He’s too warm and too alive and he shouldn’t feel alive, should he? He’s _dead_ , after all.

“But there’s…” Lydia twists in his grasp, turning to where the monster in the shadow looms. Stiles tries to tug her back, his hands gripping her shoulders but she fights her way free, “What is that?”

Behind her is a dog.

It’s not a dog.

They might not live in California anymore, but she’s pretty sure that’s a wolf. Even if it’s eyes glow red and there is something almost akin to intelligence in those scarlet rubies.

Stiles sidesteps around her, until his body is between her and the thing in the shadows, “Laura,” he says, “Leave her alone! You’re scaring her! Go away!”

The wolf snarls.

“Laura?” Lydia whispers.

Stiles half-turns to look at her, and his face is heavily shadowed, his eyes dark black pits, “The Hales burnt,” he says, “The rebuilt this house from the ashes and it… none of them were ever quite the same, afterwards.”

“But Laura…”

“Why do you think she waited until Halloween?” Stiles’ tone is bitter, and he turns back to where the wolf is stepping forwards, “Hey!” he snaps out, “GO AWAY!” it’s a shout now, angry and for the first time since she met him, Lydia thinks she understands how the boy next to her could kill people.

The wolf fixes them with her ruby gaze, then with a shake of her great fur collar, she slips into the shadows until Lydia can’t even see the animal anymore.

Stiles’ shoulders slump slightly, “It’s okay,” he says, “You just tell them to ‘go away’.” He turns to her, expression back to the soft brown-eyed boy she knows.

“Tell them?” she hates how her voice wavers. “How the hell was I meant to know that?” she covers it up with anger, trying to push him away. His expression breaks further.

“Lydia?” he asks, and against her better wishes, she steps back into his embrace, “Shhh,” he whispers, “Don’t be mad… I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it, but it sounds like it’s something he says all the time. Like it’s a fact. Something that is eternal. Stiles Stilinski is in love with Lydia Martin.

Or maybe more: Stiles Stilinski loves Lydia Martin.

She can see it in his eyes. She can see it in the way that he moves, the way he revolves around her, and the way she’s pretty sure he would do anything for her.

It scares her.

But she thinks she might love him too, and that terrifies her even more.

"Spend the day with me,” Stiles shrugs, like Lydia shouldn’t be in school, like she shouldn’t be doing a hundred other things. “We'll play scrabble if you want,” his voice tips into the hopeful, but still with that spark of Stiles, “I'll even let you win."

She nods against him, and she feels fingers under her chin, tipping her head back until she’s looking at him. She doesn’t know what confirmation he was looking for in her eyes, but he must get it, because he leans forwards. It’s slow, so Lydia knows it’s coming, but the kiss still takes her breath away.

Something about it feels different, and she doesn’t know what.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Stiles tells her, like a promise. “I love you.”

He says that like a promise as well.

 

Natalie glances sideways at where her phone sits in her bag on the passenger seat next to her.

Lydia is just one phone call away, she thinks. There shouldn’t be any reason to worry so much. Her daughter was no longer five years old - she was an adult. A responsible adult who doesn’t need Natalie phoning her up every hour.

But there is still something not right. Something that makes her worry. Just the thought of her little girl alone in that big house…

She is being paranoid, she thinks, shaking her head and turning her attention back to the road.

Lydia will be fine.

 

She has a torch this time.

As if it’s going to make a difference.

Lydia lives in a house full of ghosts. She’s not going to be scared by the dark.

She leaves the torch on the top step and descends. She’s been living here for long enough that she knows enough not to get lost. It’s easy for her to find her way to the cold concrete floor and the wooden shelves filled with old aged wine and the few filled with unexplained substances that neither Lydia nor Natalie have gotten to investigating yet.

“Hello?” she calls out, looking around. There are too many twists and turns, even in the basement. Too many open doorways with small rooms and tiny crawl spaces. The house is ancient in places, even with large parts being rebuilt by the Hales after the fire. “Is anyone there?”

She’s hoping for Peter. She’s hoping for the man whose true form she doesn’t even know.

Except she does. He’s had all the sanity burnt out of him of course.

She’s hoping for Peter. She’s hoping for the man who is far too interested in her and Stiles. She’s hoping for the man who opened her eyes so she can prove she overcame that obstacle, just like everything else that fell in her way.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?” a voice mocks from behind her, “There’s a reason people should be afraid of the dark - you never know what’s hiding just. out. of. sight.”

Lydia whirls around and Kate laughs at her surprise. The blonde woman stands by the stairs, blocking Lydia from the exit. She doesn’t allow herself to be intimidated, holding her chin high and meeting Kate’s curious gaze. “I was looking for Peter,” she says, and Kate’s face twists unpleasantly.

“Peter?” she sneers, “ _Peter?_ ”

“Yes,” Lydia says, primly, “What’s the matter, _sweetie_? Recalling the time he ripped your throat out?”

Kate glares at her, “You act so confident,” she snaps, stalking forwards, “But inside you’re nothing but a scared little girl. You’re not even normal, are you?”

“At least I’m alive.”

Kate blinks, and then for some reason she bursts out laughing, “You think you’re so much better than us, don’t you?” she croons, suddenly filled with confidence, “But do you want the truth, Lydia? You’re just as crazy as the rest of us!”

“No,” Lydia shakes her head, refusing to believe that, “No, you’re wrong.”

“But I’m right and that is what really scares you, isn’t it?”

“Shut up!” she shouts, voice rising, “Just go away!”

Kate’s face twists again, “Like that trick’s going to work!”

“Go away!” Lydia shouts, “Go. _Away_!” She clenches her eyes closed, blocking out the sight of Kate lunging towards her. She stays there for minutes. Five, ten, she’s not sure, her eyes pressed tightly closed and heart beat in her throat.

But when she opens her eyes she’s alone in the dark of the basement.

Kate is gone.

 

Scott toys with the number. He probably doesn’t have enough money for a call but maybe a text will get through just as well. It wouldn’t convey the same message though, would it…? Scott isn’t sure.

But he needs to do something. This isn’t his first choice, but maybe it’s his only choice. He’s running out of options here.

He stares at the message he’s written, and rewrites a phrase. Gazing at it a minute longer he changes it back and then thumbs down on the send button before he can change his mind.

His eyes sink closed and his breath stutters out. He’s done it now. He’s just going to have to live with the consequences.

It’s for the best though.

It has to be.

 

“What is this?” Lydia says. On her phone is a vague text from Scott and she should have ignored it. She really, really should have. But instead she had done what he had asked and gone to meet him. He isn’t far - he’s on her doorstep when she opens the door.

At least… he is, but there is somebody else with him. A tall, greying man with a thick beard and tired blue eyes. “My name is Chris Argent,” the man standing on Lydia’s doorstep says, “And I’m here to help.”

Scott’s lingering in the man’s shadow like he’s not sure if he should be there or not. He shoots Lydia a small, apologetic smile. He keeps glancing around like he’s nervous or afraid that somebody is going to appear which is actually a valid concern. Lydia steps outside, shutting the door behind her. She doesn’t think it will make that much difference, but the man in front of her seems uncomfortable standing there.

With good reason. _Chris Argent,_ Lydia thinks, _is Allison’s father._

“Help with what?” she hates how her voice trembles.

“I think you know the answer to that, Lydia,” Chris tells her, “You’re a clever girl.”

“Just listen to him,” Scott steps out from behind the older man, “He’s here to try and help you. This… we can’t keep it up.”

“I don’t get what you’re talking about,” Lydia says again, because how is the father of a dead girl meant to help.

Chris jerks his head to the house behind her, “What else?” he asks, “The ghosts.”

“What about them?”

“Some of them…” Scott cuts in before Chris can speak, “Some of them are good but others… they mean harm and we think there might be a way to get rid of them…”

“’Get rid of’,” Lydia echoes, and something akin to cold steel stabs into her heart, “You mean kill them.”

“Exorcise,” Scott tries to explain to her, his tone soft and reassuring like he’s talking to an injured dog, “They’re already dead, Lydia. We’ll just be helping give them closure… help them move on.”

She’s shaking her head. She only just realises now when the words stick in her throat, “Is Allison included in this?” she doesn’t feel the least bit bad about bringing up Allison, even when Chris flinches. “Is Stiles? Are you going to help them ‘move on’?”

“More like Peter,” Scott snaps, “Not everyone in that house is good. Some are bad.”

“Like Kate,” Chris looks grim and - oh, of course, Kate is his sister. It wasn’t just his daughter he lost to the house.

“No,” Lydia says violently shaking her head, “No, I won’t do it…”

“Lydia, please just consider this…”

“No,” her voice is sharp, tone final, “Get out of my house.”

“But--“ Scott tries to argue.

“Get off my property,” Lydia snaps, “Before I call the police.”

She watches them leave. Scott is reluctant, but Chris looks all too happy to be off her front lawn. It doesn’t stop the sad glance he shoots back up the path towards her, his gaze flickering longingly to one of the windows.

Lydia doesn’t look to know that Allison is standing there, watching. She doesn’t really want to see. She whirls around and vanishes back inside, slamming the door closed behind her.

 

Stiles watches the girl with the red hair.

Except it’s more like strawberry blonde. It’s not vibrant enough to be red or ginger. There is too much copper, too much brown and blonde and auburn and he’s never quite seen a colour like it before. It’s like the leaves in autumn. It’s like the burning flames in the fire. It’s like the colour that sparks in Peter’s eyes.

It’s softer than the blood that coats his fingers. Paler. Warmer. Lighter. He embraces it, chases it, seeks it out…

Lydia’s alone in the cold, big house. Lydia is alone in a house full of ghosts and she doesn’t try to seek him out, or to call Scott over. She looks pale. Withdrawn. Sick.

Stiles watches the girl with the strawberry blonde hair and she doesn’t see him. She barely sees anything.

 _Damn Scott_ , Stiles thinks. Damn him.

He’s seen Lydia at her best. He’s seen her at her strongest; fierce and brave and clever. But he’s seen her at her weakest too, broken and wide-eyed, looking paler than he, hands forever bleeding from cuts across her wrists from a broken mirror.

People are nothing more than broken toys, used and discarded and thrown away. Stiles walks the house feeling barely there, barely human. He’s nothing more than an echo; a ghost; a faded memory in people’s minds. His heart beats and his lungs suck in air. He can touch, feel, breathe, but he makes no lasting impact. He is waves upon the sandy shore, washing out his own imprints that he’s left there.

For a house filled with people, there are too many empty spaces. Too many gaps, too many places to hide and walk unseen. Allison is lurking somewhere in the kitchen. Peter creeps back to a dark shadow to plot while Kate hangs about in his peripheral vision. Laura’s somewhere, but whether she’s a wolf or she’s a human Stiles can’t tell.

“Hey,” Derek says from behind Stiles, stepping into the room he’s standing in, “Are you okay?”

Being okay, Stiles thinks, is subjective.

“I’m okay,” he says, agreeably. What Derek takes it to mean is up to him.

“You know,” Derek says, slowly, “They sometimes say that ghosts get stuck, doing what they did in life. Looking around I think it’s kind of true.”

“How so?”

“Kate hunts. Peter manipulates. Isaac hides in dark spaces until he realises he doesn’t have to anymore.”

Derek doesn’t say what it is that Stiles did; what it is that Stiles is doing now. He doesn’t need to, and so he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t talk about obsessions or compulsions or anything like that. Maybe it’s because he can’t - Derek’s not the most stable for talking about emotions. Not after sleeping with Kate and then having her burn his family to death around him.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t need to, because Stiles already knows.

Or maybe because it’s already too late.

Because Stiles is only good at one thing.

Breaking other people.

After all if you play with any toy long enough you tend to break it.

And looking at the strawberry blonde with blood red-lips, he thinks he’s already broken her, that is, if she hasn’t already broken herself.

 

“How many ghosts are in the house?” Lydia whispers to him in the hours that aren’t really yesterday, but don’t yet feel like today. He’s physical. She’s looking right at him and she’s letting him tie red string around and around her fingers like it’s the only thing holding them together.

Stiles remembers string. Balls of it wrapped around his room, trying to make sense of everything. Green and yellow and blue; strung up like Christmas lights. Solved and almost and pretty.

Then there was the red.

Red is unsolved, and this girl staring at him is the biggest unsolved mystery of them all.

“How many?” Lydia asks again.

“Not as many as there could be, but more than there used to be.” She doesn’t quite understand why he sounds so sad when he says that. “You’ve met most of them.”

“Most? But not all… who haven’t I met?”

It’s like an adventure. He takes her hand and they run through the house. It’s large and dark and old. Their footsteps echo and Lydia feels like a child, sneaking out of bed. The chilled air sends goose bumps up her bare arms and she rubs at them, something that feels a little bit like laughter bubbling in her chest.

“You haven’t met Talia. She was one of the first. One of the Hales who died in the fire. One of the few who clung on. She started it all. Then there’s Laura. Peter, of course, and Kate. Derek and Cora…”

“Cora?”

“Derek’s sister. She usually hangs with Isaac…”

“Isaac?”

“His dad shut him in the freezer and forgot about him. Peter almost killed his dad, but thankfully they got the body out of the house or we’d be stuck with him too…”

It’s thrilling in a way it really shouldn’t be, Stiles dragging her through the empty rooms. Prada’s asleep in her room and her mom is gone. It’s just Lydia. Lydia and everyone else. With new eyes she turns and she can see them. Some are pale and barely there. Others like Stiles and Allison look almost solid.

Allison looks sad for some reason, and her friend steps away, and Stiles tugs her onwards.

“Heyyy,” the girl with the dark russet hair drawls, hovering in front of them on the landing, “Where you running to?” The girl is about her age. Maybe younger. Maybe older. It’s hard to tell.

She’s also probably dead so it’s not like it makes much difference.

“Just runnin’,” Stiles snaps back, “You never know what might be hiding in the dark.”

“Like you,” a curly haired blonde boy standing next to the girl between one blink and the next laughs, “I warned Allison about you…”

“Isaac Lahey,” Stiles says, and it takes Lydia a while to realise he is talking to her, “And that’s Cora Hale. They’re not bad.”

Not bad. That’s what Lydia has been clinging to, the fact there are good people trapped here as well. Like the pair in front of her. Like the boy standing next to her... except turning to him she can barely make him out. He’s coated in shadows, in the dusk of the night and the dawn of the day making him nothing more than a dark silhouette.

“You’re Lydia, right?” Cora asks, “You can see us now?”

“What do you mean ‘now’?”

“You couldn’t before,” Isaac shrugs, “Most people can’t. We’re not really here. But you’re one of us now, after all. That changes the rules.”

“There are rules?” she whispers.

“A few,” Cora shrugs, “But they’re important. They’re absolute. They’re the boundary between us and you, between life and death, between what is real and what isn’t. They keep us here, like we are, like you are and…”

“And they keep us sane. They keep us human.”

Which is kinda’ ironic, Lydia thinks, considering everyone around her is dead. And not just the two kids in front of her whose only crime was to die in the wrong house.

She wonders if it would be kinder to allow them to move on.

She wonders if it would be kinder to rid the dead of the ones haunting them. Can you even be haunted if you’re a ghost? Lydia doesn’t know.

“Are you okay?” Cora steps forwards, face creasing in concern, “You look worried. You should look after yourself… I mean… you’re one of us, but we can only do so much…”

Lydia meets the dead girl’s gaze, lips pressed tightly together. She doesn’t trust herself to say anything, just nods. The words sink to her stomach like lead and she stumbles over the meaning.

Isaac had said something similar, hadn’t he?

_You’re one of us, now._

She feels Stiles’ gaze like it’s a dead weight, dragging her down to the bottom of the ocean where no light reaches. It feels like something’s changed, like she’s opened her eyes and seeing this house for what it really is. She doesn’t know how she missed it before. “Come on,” Stiles says, reaching for her and Lydia pulls back. She doesn’t understand why at first, and she watches as Isaac and Cora glance nervously at each other. “Lydia?”

“You said…” she whispers, slowly, “You said ‘one of you’.”

Isaac blinks slow and languid.

“You said I was one of you now,” Lydia says, words running through her mind.

“Lydia,” Stiles begins the sentence but she cuts him off, stepping away so that he’s not even in her range of vision.

“Why did you say that?”

Isaac shakes his head violently, “You mean you don’t know?” he says, voice incredulous and the hint of a laugh in it. He’s not mocking her. He’s mirthful but his eyes aren’t cruel or humorous; they’re startled.

Lydia turns slowly. Behind her Stiles is stepping away from her down the corridor, nothing more than a dark shadow, “What are they talking about?” she asks him. “Stiles? What do they mean ‘one of us’? Is it because I live here? Because I know?”

“Lydia…”

“Because I want it to be that. I want it to just be nothing but it… why are you looking at me like that?” His expression is twisted. Twisted and sad and unreadable, “Stiles,” she whispers, “Why… are they right? Am I… am I one of you? But I’m not dead. I’m not dead, I’m not one of you.”

It takes her longer than it should to realise that Stiles isn’t answering her.

“Stiles,” she says, slowly, “Stiles, don’t lie to me.”

She’s aware of Isaac and Cora fading away into the background. She’s aware of a door closing in more ways than one, an exit sealed and cut off from her until it’s just her and Stiles. It always has been she realises, ever since he stepped into the bathroom, a shattered reflection shadowed behind her own broken gaze. It’s like the world revolves around her and him; her world has narrowed, shrunk, horizons dipped until the sun is setting right where she stands, and Stiles is her night standing before her.

It’s always going to be just her and Stiles.

“Stiles; don’t do this. Please, don’t lie. Not to me.”

He looks like she’s punched him, “Lydia,” he whispers, “Please… I don’t want… you don’t want to know…”

“I want to know,” she interrupts, angrily, “Tell me.”

Stiles looks like he wants to cry, shaking his head mutely, “It’s…” he stops and starts again, voice muted, “I should probably show you,” he whispers.

“Then show me.”

“You don’t want to see.”

“Yes,” she says, and for once her voice is strong and certain, “Yes, I do.”

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry?


	6. Asphyxia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this even is it happy? Is it bitterly sweet? I don't know, in my head it was tragically happy but then I wrote it and it kind of wasn't, but I hope nobody is too disappointed. Wow, this was fun, it was basically an excuse to write poetically with lots of metaphors and similes and flowery language combined with some dark stuff. Hope everyone enjoyed the ride, let me know what you think!

This time the girl opens the door with a smile. It does nothing to hide the cautious glance she shoots over her shoulder. “Come in,” she says, and she steps aside, red hair gleaming like blood in the sunlight that catches her before she slips back inside, followed by the silver-haired man and the puppy-dog eyed boy. They’re followed this time by another man; dark skinned and balding head.

Scott wants to ask her why the change of heart. Chris just looks grim and determined; armed like he’s going to fight a war and not look at a house.

Deaton hums like he’s considering something mysterious. It’s his default setting, Scott thinks, watching as he peers around, nodding and murmuring to himself as he accesses the place, “It’s dark,” he says, “Full of pain. Full of tragedy.”

For some reason his gaze lingers on Lydia for a long moment when he says that and she looks determinedly away from him.

“Can you do it?” Chris asks, brusquely, “Do you know of a way to…” he can’t quite bring himself to say it.

Deaton crouches down, and he looks like he’s tasting the air or something. “I think,” he hums, “I think I might be able to. I’ve got some stuff.” He rummages through his bag and Scott shifts uneasily. He tries to meet Lydia’s gaze but for some reason she won’t look at him. She’s alternating between staring determinedly at the ground and glancing at Deaton with a desperate look in her green eyes.

“But can you…?” Scott stops, not sure how to ask. The looks both Deaton and Chris shoot him are too deep for him to process it all entirely. “Can you… specify it…?”

“I can’t tell yet,” Deaton says, and even though he just blinks, Scott knows in his heart that Deaton is just saying that to buy time. It’s placating and reassuring and it’s a lie. There’s no way to pick and choose which ghost they exorcise, if anything they try even works.

“Maybe Scott…” Chris says, slowly, “Maybe you should leave.”

“But--“

“We’ll let you know if we try anything,” Chris says, and Scott can tell when he’s being dismissed.

He can also tell when he’s being lied to, and he casts one long look around the house he somehow doubts he’s going to see again. On his way out, he grabs onto Lydia’s shoulder, tugging her close, “Are you okay?” he asks her. She’s cold under his touch. So, so cold and he shudders internally, because he knows what that means.

She flinches from under him, and when she meets his gaze he thinks that she knows what it means as well, “I’m fine,” she says, and Scott knows as well as anybody else whose girlfriend and best friend died bloody that ‘I’m fine’ is just another way of saying that you’re not.

 

Deaton explores every nook and cranny. That is, at least, what it appears to be, when in reality she knows he doesn’t dare venture into some corners of this house. Lydia can only dread what he might find if he did.

He pokes at things with sticks; he burns incense and throws down black powder. He hums a lot and exchanges laden glances with Chris Argent a lot.

“Well?” she asks, eventually, “Is there a way?”

Deaton straightens, and he meets her gaze squarely, “There might be a way,” he says, “But do you realise that you…”

“I know,” she says, ignoring the funny look he’s shooting her. Chris looks tired and so much older than he probably is as he looks around the house he once used to live in. “I know and it has to be done. Doesn’t it?”

“This house is old,” Deaton says, “It’s been rebuilt and whoever rebuilt it… something changed. Its wooden panels and brick were once protection, but after being destroyed they’ve now become a beacon to dark things. They are drawn here, and it just adds to the negative energy building up here.”

Lydia wants to laugh. In the end it’s just the same. Except this time it isn’t a dead body she finds, it’s a house with foundations of blood and ash. She is drawn to it like some morbid omen of death. “Can you cleanse it? Burn some incense; help everyone to move on…?”

“I might be able to,” Deaton says, “But I don’t know how effective it will be…”

“Try,” Lydia says.

“It’s not that simple,” Chris says, stilted, “He can’t… you can’t pick and choose, can you?”

“If you’re asking me if I could save Allison, then I’m sorry. She’s already dead.”

Chris sucks in a sharp breath, eyes flittering closed. “I was hoping… but… I haven’t been back because I couldn’t bear to be here. First Victoria… this was meant to be a fresh start.”

Lydia has heard those words before.

“It was meant to be better,” Chris whispers, “It wasn’t meant to…” he stops talking abruptly, and Lydia turns, looking at what has caught his attention.

Stiles is standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at her with wide eyes, “Lydia…” he says, moving forwards, “Lydia, what are you doing?” His gaze scans over Chris and Deaton, the latter of who stands up, drawing in on himself defensively, “What are they doing here?” He takes a step forwards.

She hates herself for taking a step back.

“Lydia?”

“I’ll talk to you later,” she says, “Okay, Stiles?”

“ _Later_?” Stiles’ expression grows still, gaze resting on where Chris Argent is still staring at him. Then with a huff, Stiles laughs, shaking his head, “Yeah, sure. _Later_ ,” his tone is dark. Cold. Unfamiliar.

Chris flinches. But not from Stiles. From the girl who has stepped out of nowhere to stand beside him, crossing her arms and gazing at him, “Hi dad.”

Stiles laughs again, a low unnatural thing, and he turns a blank gaze to Lydia, ‘See you,’ he mouths, and then she blinks and he’s gone. Allison is still standing there, one edge of her mouth curled up into a lopsided smile.

Chris makes a sound like he’s choking. The name “Allison” is only just audible. He takes a step forwards then stops, shaking his head, “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Yeah,” Allison agrees, “So am I.”

Then she’s gone too.

 

Lydia glances idly to the clock on the wall. It’s ticking up as the sun sets, but hopefully they should be done by the time her mother gets home from the conference. Her time though? Her time is ticking down.

She curls up on the stairs while Deaton sets up his chalk circles and mountain ash. They all decided it was best to do this now. Best and easier and quicker. There are ghosts watching them and they will only stay hidden in the shadows for so long.

She watches as Deaton lights up a fire, scrawls down symbols and Chris Argent paces up and down with a gun. She doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it. It’s not like he’s going to successfully shoot anybody in this house to death again.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Lydia asks them, because - no offense - but Deaton is a veterinarian. She’s seen his badge. What’s a vet meant to know that can help her out of this big black pit she’s fallen into?

Maybe she dug the hole herself. Maybe she was pushed. She’s not really sure.

Does it even matter in the end, when she still ends up sprawled at the bottom in the dark and the dirt?

“If this doesn’t,” Deaton announces gravely, “Then I don’t know what will.”

She sighs. She’s tired. She’s so, so tired. She just wants to curl up and sleep. She wants to run down to the basement and talk with Allison for hours. She wants to wrap herself up in Stiles’ arms and listen to his heartbeat. She wants to go to school and laugh with her friends, Scott and Stiles arguing over something while Allison comments on pretty boys walking past.

She wants normal.

This isn’t normal.

It will be over soon, she promises herself, as Deaton positions a candle into the circle. “I think,” he says, “I think we’re ready.”

“I should get Scott,” Chris sighs.

“No,” Lydia’s voice is curt, “No, he doesn’t need to be here. Not for this.”

Chris looks at her sharply like he wants to argue with her, but he doesn’t say anything. He turns to Deaton expectantly and with a heavy heart Lydia turns too.

Deaton begins to chant.

Lydia wonders what will happen now to the ghosts of the house. She wonders where Cora and Isaac and Derek and Laura and Peter and Kate and Allison and Stiles will end up. She wonders about the others she hasn’t even met yet.

She wonders where she will end up.

She’s cold. Wrapping her arms around herself doesn’t help. It’s a bone deep iciness that chills her, no matter how much she tries to warm herself up. Food tastes like ash in her mouth and she’s amazed she didn’t notice sooner.

Lydia tries not to think of what will happen to her when Deaton finishes. She tries not to think of how despite how physical she feels, she’s actually paper thin. She’s nothing more than thought and spirit, held together by the weak bonds of the house entrapping her.

She thinks of her body, slipped into the empty spaces in this large house. She thinks of the spirits and souls trapped in here and how they will be here for years to come.

She thinks of her past and she thinks of her future and both roads lead nowhere.

 

**_‘You’re one of us now’._ **

_It sounds like some sort of initiation. It sounds like some sort of sick promise as Stiles takes her hand and leads her down down down to the basement and even further below._

_“Where are we going?” she asks, as he slips into a shadow that widens into a tunnel into a crawl space between the walls and floors. He just gestures, flashing her a smile that is nothing more than a scar in the darkness._

_“Come on,” he says, sliding back into the dark. Lydia fumbles, trying to climb after him._

_In her head the whispers of the house scream. She closes her eyes, trying to block them out, “I don’t like this,” she whispers. She slips, and grabs onto a wooden support beam for balance. Her movement sends a cloud of dust into the air, catching in her throat and choking her. “Stiles, wait up… I can’t… it’s too loud, too much, why are we doing this?”_

_“What are the voices saying?” she lets out a little cry of alarm as Stiles appears right in front of her. He is both a surprise and assistance as he holds out his hand to her, letting her take it for support. Stiles is always that. Both good and bad. Both dark and light. Both a hindrance and a help. A predator and the prey. He’s confliction in human form, and Lydia’s drowning in the middle of his whirlpool of chaos._

_“They’re saying ‘why the hell are we down here?’” she snaps, not impressed, “What is it that you want to show me?”_

_“I don’t want to show you,” his face creases in sorrow, “But you asked. You asked and I… you should know. I didn’t want you to find out this way but…”_

_He’s standing in front of something, Lydia realises suddenly. The bulk of his body is blocking something behind him. “What is it?” she asks, reaching out and tugging at his shoulder to move him out of the way. “What…?”_

_“Lydia, don’t…” he still moves when she shoves past him, but it’s full of reluctance and sorrow as she stumbles forwards, stopping just in front of the rotting body on the ground and--_

_This isn’t real. There is no way this is real. She’s hallucinating again, just when she thought it was over…_

_It’s her. The body on the ground is her. Red hair limp and eyes open blindly. Flies crawling out of her mouth and arms ripped up with scars and still stained with blood._

_She whirls around, colliding with something warm and solid. For a moment she relaxes into Stiles’ embrace._

_Then she shoves him away, disgusted. “What is this? Some sort of trick? It’s not funny! It’s not… this is sick… this is…”_

_“It’s not a trick, not this…” Stiles tries to grab hold of her, and she fights against him. She beats at his chest, shoving him backwards but he just holds her, “This is real, Lydia. I swear to god, this is real.”_

_“No, no, not this, I didn’t… it was an accident…”_

_“Shh, it’s okay. I know. I know, it’s okay…”_

_“It’s not,” she fights her way out of his embrace, “It’s not, Stiles, I’m dead.”_

_“Lydia, don’t say that…”_

_“Why not?” she demands, hysterically, “It’s true! I’m dead! That’s my body! I died and I didn’t even fucking notice!”_

_A new voice slides into the conversation like poisonous, slick oil. “Well, someone did.” Peter looms behind Stiles like some sort of omen, but whether it’s for her or for Stiles, she knows not._

_Lydia doesn’t need this. She doesn’t need Stiles looking at her like she’s a piece of broken china. She doesn’t need Peter lurking in the shadows. He’s young now. He’s her age. She wonders how old he was when he died - if he was twenty or thirty or some other age? She doesn’t even know._

_“ **Someone** noticed,” Peter purrs._

_“Shut up,” Stiles snarls._

_“Why?” Peter shrugs, “It’s true. Her body didn’t just find its way here alone, did it? But you were with Lydia, so that only really leaves two others.”_

_“Shut up,” Stiles steps around Lydia, full of anger and purpose, “Stop talking or I swear to god--“_

_“You’ll what?” Peter laughs, not looking at all intimidated, “You’ll kill me? Oh sweetheart, there’s nothing you can do to me that you haven’t already done to yourself.” He steps forwards, hand reaching out and fingers trailing along Stiles’ jawline. For a moment Stiles leans into the touch and then he tears his head away._

_Peter’s smile grows cruel, and he steps backwards like he’s won some sort of game that Lydia didn’t even know they were playing._

_“Scott knew,” Lydia whispers in realisation, “Scott and Allison… they… they helped to hide it…”_

_“You didn’t need to know,” Stiles insists earnestly, “You were happy. You… you weren’t trying to kill yourself. You didn’t need to find out this way.”_

_“I’m dead,” her voice trembles, “I’m dead and none of you thought to tell me?”_

_“It’s the same old drill,” Peter drawls, “Then wanted to keep you safe, they wanted to keep you naïve and innocent and tamed like a pet. Like fire tamed by Prometheus and given to mankind. But I can see that you’re not, Lydia. You’re not a tiny little flame, you’re a wildfire.”_

_“Shup up!” Lydia doesn’t know what to do about Stiles. She doesn’t know what to do about Scott or Allison or the other ghosts in the house. But she knows what to do about Peter who stands there, tone lilting and confident and she just wants him gone, “Go away.”_

_He flinches, as if she’s physically punched him, “Lydia, sweetheart…”_

_“Don’t call me sweetheart!” she snaps, “Get out of my head!”_

_“I’m not in your head,” Peter snarls, and for a moment his mouth is full of fangs and his eyes are red and then they’re not, “I’m the realest real anything in this house is ever going to get. I’m your future, Lydia,” he takes a step forwards to punctuate his words, “Stiles will tell you. I mean… a broken boy playing with shadows is one thing, but a girl who screams for death? Lydia, Lydia, Lydia…”_

_She doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to know what things Peter had planned. Things involving death and destruction and she wonders if it was him who started this whole thing off. If it was him who first woke up in this cursed house._

_He’d been in a coma, Lydia remembers, and she wonders in the end how similar a coma is to being a ghost._

_She wonders if Peter ever really woke up from that coma._

_“Go away,” it’s a whisper. A quiet breath. But again Peter stops moving and glares. So she says it again with more conviction, “Go away!”_

_“Lydia--“_

_“No!” she shouts, “GO. AWAY!” Her eyes are closed and she curls her fingers over her ears and she shouts it again. She can’t hear it. There’s a loud ringing in her ears and a force in her chest, but when she opens her eyes seconds later it’s to Stiles standing there, nothing more than a pale skeletal shadow watching her._

_She turns away. The crawlspace behind her is dark and littered with her crumpled corpse, so she doesn’t look at that. She limps weakly forwards back the way she had come._

_“Lydia?” his wavering voice makes her stop, “Where are you going?” he steps out in front of her and she jolts away from him, batting harmlessly at his chest._

_“Get off me,” she snaps, “Get… get away from me!”_

_“Lydia?” he flinches back as if hurt, “Lydia…”_

_“No, don’t… don’t **touch** me!”_

_“I’m not Peter!” Stiles says, taking a full step away from her like there is something wrong with her. Like there is something that needs to be avoided._

_She shakes her head, feeling tears prick her eyes, “No,” she whispers, “No, you’re not. You’re worse. If Peter’s like smoke, choking me, then you’re like carbon monoxide. You can’t even see it until it’s too late and I… I can’t do this with you. Not now.”_

_“But Lydia…”_

_“No… don’t make me do it. I don’t want to but… I will. I can…”_

_There are planes of existence overlapping each other. In the house they all combine, but Lydia can still force herself into a plane which doesn’t have Stiles in it._

_She closes her eyes and counts her breathing. Her fingers clutch at a crumpled piece of paper in her pocket with a phone number written in Scott’s untidy scrawl on it and an old French name._

_She knows what she needs to do now._

_When she finally opens her eyes seconds, maybe even minutes later, it is to nothing more than shades of dusk in the space in between._

_Stiles is gone._

 

Deaton finishes speaking and there’s a moment of utter stillness. It’s peaceful, Lydia thinks. Death is actually rather peaceful.

Then Chris turns around with a questioning look. “Is that it?” he asks.

It’s like an icicle stabbing through her. It hadn’t worked. There is no purifying fire. No wash of white light.

There exists just a girl sitting on the stairs. A girl who is dead and not dead sitting there, somehow clinging to life even though her body lies rotting beneath their feet.

There exists a house full of ghosts. There exists a collision of what should be and what should be long dead by now, all clustered together like a group of cells, so close together that even with a microscope you can’t tell which are the healthy ones and which are the viruses.

“Check it,” Chris instructs sharply, “Read it out again… maybe we missed something.”

“I didn’t miss anything,” Deaton doesn’t even try to move, “This method is not going to do what you want it to.”

“Then what will?” Chris rounds on the vet, “My daughter is trapped here! What will help her move on? Is there anything at all?”

“There might be… but I’d have to look further and…”

“And it’s not going to work.”

Lydia doesn’t know why they jump. She doesn’t even have the energy, just rolls her neck to look to where Kate lounges in the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them.

“You tried your little spell,” Kate spits out, blonde hair pouring over her shoulders, “Oops… It didn’t work so what makes you think anything else will? You’re not the first to try to get rid of us, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

“Kate…” Chris’ face grows cold, then he whirls back to Deaton, “What else is there?”

The vet shakes his head mutely and Kate laughs. It’s slightly crazed, “Come on!” she shouts, pushing herself up from the doorframe to pace towards her brother while Lydia looks on “You didn’t really think you could get rid of us? We’re already _dead_ , what more do you want?”

Chris’ expression turns from shocked to furious so quickly Lydia is surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. She wonders how she’s going to explain the bullets in the woodwork to her mother as Chris grabs his gun and shoots Kate in the stomach.

She laughs. She holds her stomach, watches it bleed almost as if she was human and she laughs.

“What did you do?” Chris demands angrily, “What did you _do_?”

“Nothing!” she laughs, “That’s the best part! It was never going to work. It’s cute. How you tried. But did you really think you stood a chance?”

She skips backwards from Chris’ punch, blonde hair like a fiery halo around her head. Lydia’s breath huffs out in little huffs, and she thinks she might be crying.

She just wants this to be over.

Dead is dead is dead is dead.

Lydia’s dead, yet somehow she goes on living. Lydia’s dead and Stiles is dead and Peter is dead and Allison and Cora and Isaac and Kate and who knows who else.

Dead is dead is dead is dead.

Except when it’s not.

 

“It’s not all bad, is it?” Stiles asks her. He’s pale; barely there; like Lydia hardly wants to see him. Chris is shouting at Kate, Deaton is packing up resolutely and she slips away, slips into his arms like he was there waiting for her.

She doesn’t want to need him as much as she does.

She shoves him away with weak arms and he goes, giving her space. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she sobs, “I don’t… you’re a monster. You’re all monsters! You’re freaks, ghosts…”

“Freaks, ghosts and monsters,” Stiles’ laugh is bitter; “It sounds like the name of a horror story.”

“It is,” she spits, angry and venomous and she’s sick of being a poor lost defenceless little girl. That had been after all why she had sought out Chris’ help.

Not that it worked.

“You tried to get rid of me,” Stiles says, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s saddened by that fact or angry. “Did you not want me anymore?”

“I always want you,” she snaps back, “That’s the problem. I can’t do this. Not anymore.”

She sees the change. The moment he flickers from something familiar to a shadow of himself. Stiles is darkness in human form, full of anger and rage supressed under the surface. “Well you’re here now,” he spreads out his hands, gesturing around him, “What are you going to do? There’s no escape from this hell and believe me, I’ve tried so. many. times. It’s just you and I now, Lydia.”

She shakes her head, backing away, because she hasn’t yet tried running from this yet. She hasn’t yet tried slamming open the door and stepping outside. She hasn’t yet tried crossing over to where Scott’s house lies the other side of the fence - practically dry land and calm waters compared to the sea she’s drowning in.

“It’s not going to work!” Stiles shouts after her, and in retrospect she should have known.

Of course it wasn’t going to work.

 

The door slams behind her and she steps into freedom only to end up back in the house.

Lydia tries every route she can think of, knowing in her heart that it’s never going to work.

“We can’t leave,” Allison says, as she flies back in through the back door, hands scrabbling for support against the counter before she crashes head first into the floor. She’s panting. She’s crying. She probably looks a mess and her friend just blinks quietly down at her.

“I know,” Lydia whispers back, “But I just thought I’d try.”

Allison’s voice is ever so quiet, “Don’t you think we would have if we could? We can spend Halloween outside, but we’re all drawn back when the sun rises.”

“I just thought…” Lydia shakes her head, red strands of brown-red-blonde hair falling past her ear to cover her eyes, “Never mind,” she whispers, “I guess I’m learning the rules.”

Her friend - her best friend, and isn’t that sad? That even before she died Lydia’s best friend was a ghost. Allison leans forwards, sliding down to sit on the floor in front of Lydia, “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” she says, like that makes anything better, “We tried to help. Stiles found you and he… he was devastated.”

“I didn’t…” Lydia’s voice chokes, “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Allison says, then looks up and around, “Dad’s gone,” she notes, sadly, “I wanted to talk to him.”

“I wanted…” Lydia stops, because she doesn’t know what she wanted.

“I know,” Allison repeats, and maybe she does. She’s gone through the same thing after all. “It will be okay,” she reaches out, grabbing onto Lydia’s hand for support.

Lydia has never noticed before that Allison’s hand used to be cold. She had never noticed, she only notices now when her friend’s hands are unusually warm instead of their usual chill. She pulls away from it, and Allison doesn’t say anything.

There is the sound of a throat being cleared and Isaac is standing by the door, looking to Allison. “Someone’s here to see you,” he says, cautiously, and steps back, gesturing someone forwards. There is a shape hovering behind him, and Lydia recognises Scott. He looks nervous and apologetic and so, so sad every time he looks at Lydia. He opens his mouth like he wants to blurt out an apology but Lydia gets there first.

“You still haven’t quite understood that you can’t keep breaking into people’s houses,” she says, tone dry even as she stands up, brushing invisible specks out dust off her skirt. “I’ll give you two some room.”

Isaac’s waiting in the corridor as she walks out, “Hey,” he grabs onto her arm as she passes, and she meets his blue gaze cautiously, “I’m sorry,” he says, and that’s almost sweet.

“Yeah,” she tugs her hand back, “So am I.”

 

Scott looks at her like she’s his sun.

Allison used to love the way he looked at her. She had had boyfriends before, but there was never anyone quite like Scott. He was gentle and kind and he had a heart of pure gold.

Maybe she should have realised that the moment she touched his heart she was trapped forever, gold spun and statue still. Maybe she should have realised earlier that there was never any real way they could be together.

It hadn’t been working before, and it certainly wasn’t going to be working afterwards.

He hovers now in front of her. He still looks at her the same way, but he makes no move to touch her.

It’s like he’s finally realised that something is broken.

 

She fumbles. The kitchen is cold and her fingers don’t work. That doesn’t make sense of course - she’s dead - how can she feel the cold?

But she does and it slides between her clumsy grasp to the counter-top. It flashes, silver lighter catching in the evening glow and then rolls dangerously towards the edge. She moves to catch it, but someone gets there first.

“Here,” Stiles hands it out to her, endless gaze boring into hers, “You dropped it.”

She snatches it from him but still he stares.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks her, voice quiet.

How can she explain it to him?

How can she even begin to try and fathom out her circular reasoning for what she’s planning to do?

How can she tell him that this house has already burned once and maybe it’s time it did again. “You wouldn’t understand,” she whispers instead, “I’m doing what I have to. This house… it’s bad. I have to end it.”

“End it? Or end us?” his voice is like tempered steel. She’s scared she’s going to cut herself further on the knife blades of the boy standing there so still and silent next to her.

“All of it.”

He closes his eyes, tearing his gaze away from her. Her fingers close around the lighter so tightly it digs into her palms. She won’t lose this battle.

But instead he just opens his eyes. They’re calm. No violent silver flash of anger or deep black agony. Just brown and normal and: “I get it.”

“No,” she shakes her head, voice breaking, “No, you don’t.”

He laughs, and it twists until it’s almost cruel, “I _do_. I really, _really_ do. I did the same, once.” There’s a weight to his words, to his meaning, and although she doesn’t want to, she probes further.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I went there with the intention of doing it, but she just wouldn’t stop and it was so easy.”

"Stiles? What are you talking about?" Lydia's tone is schooled like she's talking to a wild animal that could turn on her at any point. Calmly and gently; she watches Stiles' eyes burn between horror and sadness and a dark, overwhelming anger.

"She thought I was a monster," he spits out, "She kept trying to kill me. Claimed I wasn't her son. Dad...  Dad didn't believe me when I told him. She pushed me down the stairs. Held me under in the bath... I was a kid, only ten... What was I meant to do?"

"Stiles " her voice shakes and she tries to focus him on her. His gaze keeps wandering into the space between and she wonders what he's looking at. He is so still now. Silent except for the weak whines that die in his throat like a beaten animal and the creak of his shoes as he takes a step backwards, flinching away from her. "What did you do?" Lydia asks. She's not expecting an answer.

"I killed her."

There is a lump in Lydia's throat, in her heart and it's like a knife wound that has long been festering has just been stabbed again.

"She just wouldn't stop," Stiles continues on, "And she got weaker and weaker and she was lying in that hospital bed and she opened her eyes and saw me... But she didn't see _me_. She never saw me. So I... there are lots of drugs in the hospital. It wasn't hard to find one and slip in into her IV. Nobody even noticed."

"Stiles," Lydia says, as of that can even begin to sum up what she feels.

"I killed her," he repeats, "She was dying anyway. Nobody knew. And then dad came and everyone was crying and I was sad, but that thing wasn't my mother. My mother had already died months earlier."

She tries to draw back, away from him, but he presses closer, earnest now and a light gleaming in his eyes.

"I thought it would be better. I thought everything would go back to normal but... Dad took to the bottle... everyone acted like I was broken glass... None of them could see that it was better! Like a virus ridded from the body! Like a fire cleansing a field to grow new crops.”

“Is that what we are?” Lydia whispers, “Just a virus? A plague? A pestilence in this house?”

“You tell me,” his voice is hard and cold, and he gestures to where the lighter is cutting rivets into her hand, “You’re the one who wants to burn it down.”

“We’re already dead, Stiles,” she snaps, “What more harm can we do? And I… I don’t want my mother to die in this place and I’m certainly not prepared to _kill_ her!”

Stiles hisses between clenched teeth, “Don’t look at me like that,” he pleads with her and she closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see his heartbroken expression, “Just… not you, Lydia. Don’t you look at me like that!”

“How am I meant to look at you?” she whispers; a fierceness to her voice, “After what you did…? How am I meant to see you, Stiles? Everything I thought I knew was a lie!”

“I… I don’t know. Close your eyes. Turn around. Something!” he snaps. “Or fight back. Where’s that bite, Lydia Martin? Where’s that girl who always had a snappish response?”

Lydia has a lot of bite and bark, but it’s like she’s dealing with too many diamond cut facets of not just herself, but of the boy in front of her. Just when she thinks she knows him it twists in another direction and she sees another surface, “I’m tired,” she says instead, brutally honest, “I tired of this house, I’m tired of the lies and the secrets.”

“You think I’m not?” Stiles snaps, bitterly, “You think I like living like this in this cursed half-life trapped here with the company there is?”

“No,” Lydia shakes her head, a fire in her eyes and heart, “Which is why I want to do something about it.” And she uncurls her hand and holds out the lighter.

Stiles’ face twists, “Don’t do it,” he says, “Lydia, don’t do it.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“Because I love you.”

“And that,” she says with some finality about it, taking a step away from him and holding onto the lighter like an anchor, “That is why I have to.”

He doesn’t argue with her. He just nods slowly, and asks her the question they are both thinking, “Do you think this is really going to work, Lydia?”

She shrugs, because the honest answer is she doesn’t know. But she has to try. “Something has to break.”

 

They’re in the basement just like they always are.

This is the end, Scott thinks, and not just of him and Allison.

She’s crying.

It’s always worse when she’s crying.

“I love you,” she starts with, like that’s going to make everything better.

“Me to,” he says, “But this… Allison, you’re dead. You’re dead and I’m not and--“

“What are you saying?”

She’s going to make him say it. She’s going to make him drag out the words from his chest and spit them out, bloody and still struggling onto the cold stone tiles. It’s what she wants so it’s what he gives her. “I can’t keep doing this,” he says, with all the conviction he can muster. It’s not a lot. It’s thin and weak and it’s a lie. He’d do whatever it takes to be with Allison but in this case…

He can’t.

He sees the moment it hits, the moment she actually realises. “Scott, no…” she moves towards him and then stops, as if leashed by some invisible rope. In the same movement Scott jerks away, as if scared that Allison is raging fire he might burn himself on it he gets too close.

“Allison, I can’t…”

“Why now?” she challenges, eyes angry, “Is it because of Kate? Because of Stiles? Because of Lydia?” Her voice grows crueller with each suggestion she offers, and for the first time Scott can just about see why Stiles saw her as a threat.

“It’s because of you.”

Allison looks heartbroken. Like he punched her in the face.

Of course punching a girl who knows how to punch back is always dangerous, and Allison doesn’t use her fist.

She uses knives and arrows that cut deep and sharp.

“Me,” she mocks, tone growing smooth and cat-like until she sounds uncannily like Kate, “Because of _me_? Because I’m dead? Because I’m a ghost? No, I’m not the problem. You’re just scared of the consequences. I thought you knew what you were getting yourself in for, Scott.”

“I stuck by you,” he argues, “Even after… I still loved you but…”

“Loved? Past tense?” she narrows her eyes, “I thought we were forever, Scott. Regardless of what my father thought, or what your mother thought about my family, or what Stiles and Peter warned you about… I thought we were beyond life and dead, Scott.”

“Don’t make this… that isn’t why… Allison, you’re twisting everything I say.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispers, earnestly, and it’s the most honest thing she’s said since this conversation started, “I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you… but if you leave… you can’t leave me, Scott. Not here. Not now.”

“Allison…”

“Stiles said…” she stops, probably because any sentence that starts with ‘Stiles said’ isn’t going to turn out well, “He said that we could make you stay. Then you could never leave.”

“Make me…” Scott realises what she’s saying, and he takes another reflexive step backwards, “You mean you were going to…”

“It’s only appropriate,” she shrugs, dully, “You kill Stiles. Stiles killed me. I kill you. Complete the circle.”

“You’re sounding like Stiles,” Scott says, and she flinches at that.

“Still a valid point,” she says.

Scott can’t run. He’s in the basement with Allison and she’s a ghost. She’s got every advantage here. She’s still staring at him in mixed sadness and deep, unreadable emotion.

And Scott isn’t scared of the girl standing before him with soul sad eyes.

He’s scared of the woman she is seconds away from becoming.

When she moves he just closes his eyes. He’s expecting a knife. Some cold hard steel and a sharp stab of pain and then it will be over.

Do you feel pain if you’re dead, he wonders? Can the ghosts feel physical pain?

Death isn’t quick, nor kind, nor cold. It’s warm and soft and gentle and it’s a soft hand slipping into his and tugging him along. There is no knife or arrow, just his girlfriend and Scott opens his eyes to see her leading him towards the stairs. “Come on,” Allison whispers, “Let’s go.”

“Allison… what…”

The hurt in her eyes is visceral, “How could you think that I would… I wouldn’t do that,” she snaps, “Not… not to you, Scott. Never to you.”

“But then… why…?”

“You have to go,” she says again, and Scott doesn’t understand. She’s tugging him up the stairs and-- “Come on!”

“Allison - _what_?”

“You have to leave.”

“Why?” he stops, tugging her close and stopping her frantic rush out of the basement, “Allison, why… what’s happening?”

She looks at the ground, then her gaze flicks up to his, her eyes soft and brown and human, despite everything, “You have to get out. Before it’s over. Before it’s all over.”

“Before what’s over?” Scott asks, and that’s when he smells the smoke.

 

 _It’s only appropriate,_ Lydia thinks, _that Peter Hale will die twice from burning._

They might all die. But she’s not scared.

After all - she’s already died once.

She’s read the lore. She’s found the rumours. She’s heard about salt and purifying herbs and exorcisms and bones. She’s gone with fire because it had appealed. She liked fire. It reminded her of herself. Bright and fierce and destructive and not to be messed with.

Fire also never lied about what it was. It consumed to stay alive. It was dangerous, a single lick of it could burn and hurt. It never hid that, instead it emblazoned it for all to see and know.

Fire purifies. She can only hope the fire purifies something in this house. She can only hope the fire destroys something to make this all worth it.

Faces dance behind her closed eyelids as she blinks them closed to the flames. Kate and Peter and Laura who is a wolf then a woman and then a snarling wolf again joined by another with red eyes and--

“Hey,” Stiles holds her close, and she closes her eyes into his chest, “This was your choice, but that doesn’t mean you have to watch.”

“It’s for the best,” she tries to justify it; “Surely you have to see that? Even you.”

She cranes her neck upwards so she can see him. He’s staring into the fire around them, not saying anything. She doesn’t know if he is angry or sad or somewhat relieved that this place is finally going to burn.

“I’m crazy,” she whispers, “Kate and Peter are psychopaths. I’m pretty sure you’re a sociopath of a sort. The others were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I just want it to be over.”

“A sociopath?” he laughs, sounding amused, “Guess the shrinks were all wrong. Maybe I am mad. We're all mad here," the Cheshire cat grin on his face is like the broken shards of the mirror Lydia bled to death on.

“I love you,” she whispers to him, even though she shouldn’t.

“I know,” he parries back with a smirk, and she kisses him just so she doesn’t have to see the shadow behind him eyes.

“Don’t go,” she whispers, because he’s her rock. He’s her rock that she’s clinging to in this river of chaos. He’s her rock that she’s stuck to like a limpet because if she lets go the Lethe will wash her away.

Nobody ever thought to tell her not to pick a rock that wasn’t anchored down itself.

“I won’t,” he replies, barely a breath in her ear, “I won’t ever leave you.”

She closes her eyes and hates herself for being so reassured by those words.

 

The house is like a sauna. It’s choking and hot and Scott’s lungs feel fit to bursting as he and Allison stagger through. They might have lasted longer in the basement, but there is no way out from there.

There’s barely a way out as it is, and he stumbles through shielding his face from the heat.

“Allison…” he tries to call to her, but she’s single-minded determinedness to get out of there, “Allison…”

She turns, the firelight catching her face. “It will be okay,” she says, smiling weakly, “I’ll be fine. But I can’t have you here with me. Not like this.”

“But I…” I want to, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t know if it’s true or not. Would he really be prepared to sacrifice himself to spend the rest of his life and death with this girl? He’s afraid the answer might be yes, and if it is then he’s wasting time by standing here with his heart still thumping.

Allison looks afraid of the same answer, because with another tug she drags Scott back down the corridor, and he stumbles after her. “Get out. Go find a girl. Love her. But Scott… just one thing…”

“What? Allison…”

She closes her eyes as he says her name, like she’s trying to commit it to memory, “Remember me,” she whispers, and then reaches up to kiss him.

It’s far too short, too brief, over too soon. She pulls away as something inside the house explodes and Scott feels a rush of heat on his skin.

“Allison, let’s talk this through…”

“There’s no time!” she says, “There’s…  I’m glad we had the extra time we had… you’ll never know… Scott…”

“I’m not leaving…”

“It will be okay,” she says with a reassuring grin.

“How?” he asks, feeling lost, because how can this be okay?

The words are a smile on her lips, “Because I love you.”

It's weird hearing Scott's own words echoed back to him.

“Besides,” she shrugs, “This isn’t your decision,” she says, “This is mine,” and before Scott can realise what she’s doing she’s shoving him backwards out of the nearest window. The glass shatters around him and he tumbles through and lands sprawled on the cold earth and when he turns around, it’s to look for Allison but the ghost…

She’s already gone. Scott catches one last glimpse of a girl in the window with dark hair and chocolate eyes and then she’s gone in a rush of flames that Scott can feel the heat of, even from where he lies in the dirt.

There is the creaking of wood as old timbers burn up and crack. The fire that’s started has taken hold now and there are already sirens echoing in the distance.

“Allison!” the cry is torn from his throat, and he shoves himself up. “Allison!” She’s still in there, he thinks, forcing himself up and towards the burning house. She’s still trapped there.

He doesn’t make it there. Someone grabs onto him and drags him backwards.

“Allison…” he tries to wrestle his way free, “She’s still in there…”

“Allison’s dead,” the Sheriff says, dragging him back onto the lawn to watch the burning fire, “They’re all dead, Scott, we have to let them go.”

There is smoke staining his clothes and his skin and his lungs. He coughs a great, hacking cough while the Sheriff holds him, to make sure he doesn’t go running back to where the firemen are trying to put out the fire. It doesn’t work. The fire isn’t natural, and it doesn’t burn naturally. It flares up higher and brighter and the crew back off, as if aware that this is something they need to let burn out by itself.

“But…” Scott can’t find the words. He doesn’t think there are any.

“They were already gone,” the Sheriff says, as if that’s his motto.

“She’s dead,” Scott breathes.

“They’re all dead now,” the Sheriff sighs, and Scott turns to fall into his mother’s arms, as they watch the house burn back to the ashes from which it was built.

 

He’ll always regret he never saw his son that one last time.

But at the same time he’s never been more relieved.

The fire engines sit outside wailing and the crews mill around as they try to maintain the fire. It’s burnt too strongly to assume there is anything they can save. He’s also pretty sure Lydia was already dead before the fire started.

The only thing left in that house are dead memories that the Sheriff is all too happy to let burn.

He barely notices the car pulling up. He’s too preoccupied with making sure a tearful Scott doesn’t rip free of his mother’s embrace to try some twisted suicide stunt, and to check nobody else goes poking around to close. He doesn’t notice the car arrive, but he does notice the scream.

There is nothing worse, Stilinski decides, than a mother’s cry for her child.

The crews hold her back, but she looks like she’s about to force her way through too. He gets there, intervenes and tries to work out how to tell another parent that their child is dead, claimed by the house.

He wonders how he can even begin to explain to her that it wasn’t the fire, it was his son, and that Lydia was lost the moment she set foot in that place.

The Sheriff doesn’t know, but he thinks ‘I’m sorry’ is a good place to start.

 

Around them the flames dance higher and higher and Lydia can barely feel their overwhelming heat. She’s ice and cold and death and she's not going to burn to death. She's going to choke and suffocate as what is left of her spirit, soul, body, whatever it is that ties them here burns.

It’s going to hurt, Lydia thinks. Suffocating does. It’s going to hurt, and it’s going to feel like she can’t breath for the smoke and dust in her lungs, and it every breath will feel like sandpaper in her throat.

It will be agony. It will be agony and pain and Lydia will feel every awful second of it. She will wish it to be over, she will scream and cry and maybe not have the strength to do even that.

But at the end of it she knows it will be peaceful. She’ll choke on the fumes, there will be a point where she reaches a peak and tumbles over the other edge straight into something new. A bitter end, oblivion, another stage of death beyond this one, she doesn’t know.

Stiles holds her close, and she can feel his pounding heart strong and reassuring and like a drum beat in her head. She will tumble over that edge, she thinks, but Stiles will be right there besides her.

It’s always going to be just her and Stiles.

And that makes everything okay.


End file.
